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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


"Here,  Stub,  shine  up  this  'ere  hoss !" — Page  86. 


ON  THE 
MOUNTAIN  DIVISION 


By 

KIRK  PARSON 


It 


NEW  YOUKS   EATON   &   MAINS 
CINCINNATI:  JENNINGS  &  GRAHAM 


\ 


Copyright  by 

EATON  &.  MAINS, 

1903. 


TS 


PREFACE. 


"J-w-VRUTH  is  often  stranger  than  fiction."    On 

the  Mountain  Division  is  no  story;   it  is 

*        fact.     Every  important  railroad  incident 

herein  narrated  has  come  within  the  bounds  of  the 

author's  knowledge.    The  characters  portrayed  are 

old  friends. 

The  author  will  be  satisfied  if  the  reader  is  stimu- 

^     lated  to  a  better  life  and  the  rough,  warm-hearted, 

"?     grimy  railroader  is  given  a  place  a  little  nearer  the 

^     heart  of  other  classes;  if  the  simple,  sturdy,  honest 

country-folk  are  held  in  higher  esteem  by  their  urban 

cousins;  and  if  this  book  hastens  the  day 

J\>  "That  man  to  man  the  world  o'er 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that" 

ri  K.  P. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  BOYHOOD.  PAGE. 

I.  FIRST  RECOLLECTIONS 7 

II.  THE  ORPHANAGE 10 

III.  INDENTURED 16 

IV.  SUNDAYS  ON  THE  FARM 22 

V.  AT  SCHOOL 30 

VI.  I  GO  A-FlSHING 42 

VII.  WANDERING  WILLIE 50 

VIII.   THE  SUMMERFIELD  HOME 63 

IX.  SPRINGTIME 75 

X.  THE  FEVER 81 

MANHOOD. 

XI.  A  WIPER 85 

XII.  ON  THE  ROAD 92 

XIII.  AWRECK 97 

XIV.  CONVALESCING 106 

XV.  FLAGGING 112 

XVI.  THE  STRIKE 126 

XVII.  THANKSGIVING 133 

XVIII.  LONG  HOURS 139 

XIX.  MARRIAGE 1 50 


6  Table  of  Contents. 

CHAPTER.  PACK. 

XX.  LEFT 162 

XXI.  SUNDAY  RAILROADING 169 

XXII.  A  RUNAWAY 179 

XXIII.  ACHANGE 188 

XXIV.  ANOTHER  CHANGE 197 

BROTHERHOOD. 

XXV.  ACLEW 205 

XXVI.  SUSPENSE 211 

XXVII.  MORE  HOPEFUL 221 

XXVIII.  A  PHILADELPHIA  HOME 231 

XXIX.  MY  ELDER  BROTHER 238 

XXX.  His  STORY 246 

XXXI.  Au  REVOIR 250 


ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  DIVISION. 


BOYHOOD. 


M 


CHAPTER  I. 
First  Recollections. 

Y  first  recollections  are  of  a  fleshy  woman, 
not  handsome,  not  particularly  clean ;  of  a 
dingy,  denuded  room,  and  of  a  super 
abundance  of  clawing  from  numerous  dirty  fingers. 
As  days  passed  the  great  woman  became  to  me  a 
good  woman;  the  dingy  room  became  home;  the 
greasy  fingers  so  many  goads  that  urged  me  to 
begin  fighting  my  own  battles.  All  my  victories, 
however,  were  defeats.  The  owners  of  the  goads 
were  three  other  children  somewhat  larger  than  my 
self.  They  often  planted  me  in  the  dirt  by  the  door 
step.  It  was  all  fun  to  me  until  my  eyes  were  har 
rowed.  That  was  too  harsh  treatment.  I  resented. 
Somehow  or  other  I  did  not  grow  very  rapidly. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  I  ate  my  peck  of  dirt  too 
soon.  I  was  quite  old  when  I  began  to  walk. 


8  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Not  long  afterward  I  became  very  sick.  For 
days  and  days  everything  seemed  dark.  There  was 
no  noise  in  the  room  except  an  occasional  heavy 
step  of  the  woman  I  had  learned  to  call  "Mam." 
Then  I  felt  her  rough  hand  with  a  loving  touch. 
How  my  flesh  burned!  She  fanned  me;  tied  my 
hands  in  rags  and  rocked  me  hour  after  hour  in  an 
old,  creaking  chair.  The  pain  ceased.  Better  days 
dawned.  My  strength  returned.  Her  thick  lips 
again  touched  my  cheek.  The  children  were  play 
ing  with  me.  Times  were  as  of  yore. 

One  day  I  was  cleaned  up  pretty  thoroughly  and 
attired  in  better  garments  than  usual.  I  felt  proud. 
A  stranger  came  to  our  door.  He  was  very  kind. 
Mam  carried  me  out  to  the  buggy.  How  I  did  want 
to  ride!  She  hugged  me  to  her  great  bosom  and 
buried  me  in  the  oily  wrinkles  of  her  face  and  neck. 
Tears  fell  upon  me,  but  I  brushed  them  off,  all  the 
while  squirming  to  get  into  the  wagon.  A  last  kiss 
and  hug,  that  almost  smothered  me,  and  I  was  re 
leased.  Mam  said  "By-by"  very  sadly.  I  could  see 
nothing  sad  about  having  a  carriage  ride  that  fine 
morning.  I  gleefully  waved  a  by-by,  with  my  face 
toward  the  horse  as  I  was  driven  away. 

I  never  saw  the  woman  again.  I  knew  not  who 
she  was  even — certainly  not  my  mother,  though  as 
good  as  a  mother.  I  did  learn  afterward  that  she 
was  a  widow  with  three  children  of  her  own.  She 
was  poor.  By  the  pockmarks  on  my  skin  I  learned 
that  I  had  had  the  smallpox.  She  had  nursed  me 


,'     First  Recollections.  9 

through ;  watched  over  me  as  over  a  son.  I  would 
I  might  now  reward  her  for  her  kindness  and  self- 
sacrifice,  but  I  cannot.  God  has  not  forgotten  the 
good  woman.  Her  dingy  home  and  her  best  care 
were  but  a  widow's  mite,  yet  it  was  all  she  had. 
They  were  freely  given  to  me,  a  helpless  orphan. 
The  weary  and  ill-proportioned  body  has,  no  doubt, 
long  ago  returned  to  dust,  but  the  soul  is  a  gem  that 
will  glow  with  an  eternal  luster.  Some  day  a  crown 
will  be  placed  upon  that  brow.  Mam  was  a  queen. 


10  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  II. 
The  Orphanage* 

AFTER  several  hours  of  fast  driving  our  car 
riage  ride  came  to  an  end.  We  stopped  in 
front  of  an  immense  building.  I  was 
handed  out  into  kind  motherly  arms,  taken  to  a  bath 
tub,  cleaned,  and  dressed  in  beautiful  kilts.  From 
the  dressing  room  to  the  playroom  I  was  escorted. 
How  my  heart  danced  for  joy !  Think  of  it,  reader, 
a  nursery  full  of  little  folks,  most  of  them  larger 
than  myself,  a  few  smaller,  and  I  to  be  one  with 
them.  All  the  boys  of  my  size  wore  gowns  just  like 
mine.  I  was  timid  at  first,  but  that  soon  wore  away, 
and  I  was  as  much  at  home  as  anyone.  Time  passed 
rapidly  with  an  occasional  "scrap"  among  us  to 
break  the  monotony.  Somehow  or  other  I  had  to 
take  a  back  seat  in  times  of  trouble.  Some  months 
after  my  advent  into  the  new  life  a  kind  nurse  took 
me  up  in  her  arms,  told  me  who  I  was,  and  that  I 
was  "picked  up  up-country  a  ways."  My  name  was 
William  Barson.  Up  to  this  time  I  had  known  no 
other  name  than  Willie.  It  was  a  great  revelation  to 
me,  yet  it  did  not  hinder  my  young  heart  from  cud 
dling  up  close  to  nurse's  breast  and  feeling  perfectly 
at  home.  The  good  woman  informed  me  further 
that  I  was  an  orphan,  and  that  the  big  house  in 


The  Orphanage.  11 

which  we  lived  was  an  orphanage.  My  father  and 
mother  had  never  been  known  to  the  authorities  of 
the  institution,  nor  could  any  trace  of  them  be 
found.  My  only  possession  was  myself;  my  only 
inheritance,  my  name.  It  impresses  me  now  when 
I  think  of  it  that  I  was  alone;  then  it  made  no  differ 
ence  with  me.  As  long  as  nurse  was  good  to  me, 
and  I  received  all  the  food  I  wanted,  plenty  of  sleep, 
and  lots  of  play,  it  was  all  right. 

One  day  my  kilts  were  taken  off  and  in  their 
stead  was  placed  a  pair  of  knickerbockers.  Every 
boy  can  recall  the  day  when  he  owned  the  world  for 
the  first  time  and  it  all  hung  by  a  pair  of  suspenders. 
But  a  new  world  came  into  my  existence;  instead 
of  all  play,  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  all  work.  I  had 
to  drill,  then  study,  and  frequently  to  do  odd  jobs 
of  some  minor  importance.  It  was  awful  at  first. 
.When  the  pencils  and  slates  came  around  it  was  good ; 
when  the  picture  books  appeared  it  was  better ;  and 
when  I  began  to  read  it  was  best.  It  is  certain  that 
a  child  enjoys  learning  as  well  as  growing.  God 
pity  a  boy  who  does  not  like  books !  I  was  dull  but 
not  a  fool.  I  did  not  advance  rapidly,  but  I  ad 
vanced,  and  it  was  for  this  reason  that  I  was  kept  so 
long  at  the  orphanage.  My  face  was  against  me, 
as  well  as  my  size  and  actions.  But  my  turn  to 
leave  came  at  last. 

One  bright  June  morning  I  was  called  to  the 
reception  room  by  one  of  the  teachers.  A  stranger 
sat  awkwardly  athwart  one  of  the  chairs.  He  im- 


12  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

pressed  me  at  once.  I  had  seen  him  the  day  before 
looking  at  us  while  at  play  and  afterward  at  work.  I 
was  not  much  of  a  sport,  but  quite  a  worker.  No 
doubt  this  musty  guest  had  an  eye  to  business.  He 
measured  a  man,  and  a  boy  too,  not  by  his  outward 
appearance,  but  by  what  there  was  in  him  and  how 
much  could  be  got  out. 

"Waal,  Willie,  how'd  ye  like  tew  go  home  with 
me  an'  help  me  take  care  o'  my  hosses  an'  cattle?  I 
want  jest  sech  a  youngster  's  yew  tew  dew  odd 
jobs — huntin'  hens'  eggs,  waterin'  the  colt,  feedin' 
the  hogs,  an'  gittin'  the  cows.  Shouldn't  wonder'n 
yew  could  help  quite  some  on  the  farm  an'  save  me 
an'  the  ole  woman  quite  a  number  o'  steps." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  me  toward  him  with  a  kindly 
smile  and  took  my  hand  in  his.  There  was  some 
thing  about  him  that  I  did  not  just  like,  though  I 
did  not  know  what  it  was.  His  left  eye  was  a  squint 
eye  or  something  of  that  sort.  It  opened  occasion 
ally,  but  most  of  the  time  was  very  nearly  shut,  and 
all  the  while  twitching.  His  paper  collar  straddled 
over  his  vest,  and  the  threadbare  bow  hung  aslant, 
one  end  over  and  the  other  end  under  the  collar. 
There  was  a  forward  sag  effect  in  the  set  of  his 
coat,  top  buttons  of  his  vest  unfastened,  pantaloons 
three  inches  too  short,  and  his  extremities  were  cov 
ered,  the  nether  ones  with  cowhide  boots,  and  the 
upper  one  by  a  greasy  felt  hat,  which  now  hung 
over  his  left  knee,  while  his  head  and  long  hair 
looked  like  a  crow's  nest  after  a  storm.  Yet  I 


The  Orphanage.  13 

rather  took  to  him,  perhaps  on  account  of  the  farm 
he  possessed  and  its  beauties  that  he  placed  before 
me,  the  crowning  feature  being. the  Newfoundland 
dog,  Shack. 

"I  think  we  can  run  things  fur  fair  when  we  git  a 
leetle  used  t'  each  other.  Our  good  milk  '11  make 
ye  look  diffenter  'n  ye  dew  now,  an'  the  sunshine  an' 
air  o'  New  Dover  '11  make  yer  cheeks  's  brown  's 
a  russet." 

Jake  Stoneman  took  me  home  with  him,  and  I 
must  confess  I  was  glad  to  go.  The  monotonous 
life  at  the  orphanage  and  its  rigid  rules  had  begun 
to  chafe  me.  I  was  an  eight-year-old  boy,  and  hence 
the  freedom  of  a  farm  was  very  attractive.  My 
knowledge  of  human  nature  was  limited,  and  per 
haps  I  did  not  read  as  deeply  into  Mr.  Stoneman's 
character  then  as  I  might  have  done  to-day  under 
similar  circumstances.  It  would,  however,  have  done 
me  no  good  if  I  had  known  all  about  him,  for  the 
inevitable  was  before  me.  This  was  my  first  bid, 
and  the  asylum,  no  doubt,  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  me. 
There  is  plenty  of  sympathy  in  the  world  for  an 
orphan,  but,  as  a  rule,  very  little  charity  or  real  as 
sistance.  Sometimes  a  fellow  is  blamed  for  the  man 
ner  of  his  birth  and  held  responsible  for  the  death 
of  his  parents  long  before  he  knew  them  from  any 
body  else's  parents.  In  fact,  I  had  to  leave  the  or 
phanage,  though  I  did  not  know  it,  and  the  good 
Lord  had  already  tempered  my  will  to  go  gladly. 
The  trip  meant  a  ride  in  the  cars.  My  heart  was 


14  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

already  leaping  with  wildest  anticipation.  I  had 
never  enjoyed  that  luxury,  though  I  had  often 
watched  the  flying  trains. 

We  walked  to  the  little  station,  less  than  a  mile 
away.  My  cup  was  running  over.  Mr.  Stoneman 
pushed  me  ahead  of  him  into  a  seat  of  leather  up 
holstering  and,  sitting  down,  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  brier-root  bowl  half  burned  away,  filled  the  re 
mainder  with  black  tobacco,  lighted  it,  shoved  his 
hat  onto  the  back  of  his  head,  placed  his  knees 
against  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front,  and  entered  into 
the  blissful  realms  of  a  smoker's  repose.  He  was  not 
the  only  one  in  the  car  enjoying  the  same  elysium.  I 
wondered  then  if  ladies  ever  rode  on  railway  trains, 
for  there  were  none  in  our  coach.  It  is  strange,  isn't 
it,  men,  that  a  boy  should  have  such  an  idea  flit 
through  his  mind?  Innocence  is  often  called 
foolishness. 

But  what  cared  I  for  the  blueness  within.  The 
blueness  without  was  pure  and  the  window  was 
open.  The  incoming  air  filled  my  lungs.  The  pass 
ing  scenes  filled  my  mind.  I  was  busy,  consequently 
happy,  save,  now  and  then,  when  I  jerked  my  head 
back  from  the  window  for  fear  of  being  decapitated 
by  a  passing  locomotive. 

The  train  ran  out  onto  a  fill.  A  broad  river  came 
into  view.  The  next  instant  I  dodged  a  girder  as 
we  entered  the  iron  bridge.  I  jumped  so  vigorously 
into  my  smoking  companion  that  he  aroused  from 
bis  reverie  ajad  looked  out. 


The  Orphanage.  15 

Mr.  Stoneman  again  lapsed  into  silence  while  the 
train  sped  in  and  out  of  the  short  tunnels  so  charac 
teristic  of  Trenton.  The  train  stopped.  There  were 
the  customary  changes  of  passengers,  and  we  moved 
on.  My  companion  went  off  to  talk  with  an  ac 
quaintance.  Curiosity  was  wearing  away.  There 
was  a  sameness  of  sights  and  sounds.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  whirling  and  blending  until  sweet  Mor 
pheus  closed  my  eyes. 

I  was  aroused  by  a  punch  in  the  side  that  made 
me  jump  as  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  master,  saying : 
"Come,  boy,  no  more  o'  this.  We  git  off  now." 

He  hauled  me  out  of  the  car,  like  a  lamb  to  the 
slaughter,  more  asleep  than  awake.  It  was  twilight. 
The  freshness  of  the  evening  air  could  hardly  arouse 
me,  and  I  followed,  half  walking,  half  running,  to 
keep  up  with  the  walking  machine  about  two  strides 
ahead  of  me.  The  two  miles  traveled,  the  dimly 
lighted  room,  the  supper,  and  a  woman  were  all  a 
hazy  indistinctness  to  me,  and,  completely  tired  out, 
I  tumbled  into  bed  to  dream  of  a  brother  and  a  big 
railway  conductor  with  brass  buttons — two  ideals 
never  lost  sight  of. 


.      .  V 

16  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  III. 
Indentured. 

INDENTURED !  I  did  not  know  what  the  word 
meant,  but  it  came  at  me  across  the  breakfast 
table  like  a  cannon  ball.  Its  effect  upon  my 
sensibilities  was  similar  to  the  above-mentioned 
missile.  I  did  not  know  what  had  hit  me. 

Jake  Stoneman,  his  two-tined  fork  in  one  fist  and 
a  thin  steel-bladed  case  knife  in  the  other,  resting 
"thumbs  up"  on  the  table  at  either  side  of  his  loaded 
plate,  his  mouth  half  filled  with  warmed-up  potatoes, 
and  with  his  left  eye  a-quiver,  began: 

"Neow,  my  young  feller,  the  time  's  come  when 
we  must  have  an  understandin'  atween  us,  so's  not 
to  have  no  trouble  hereafter.  Yew're  indentured." 

He  swallowed  what  was  on  hand  and  masticated, 
shifted  his  position  so  as  to  make  an  acute  angle  of 
his  right  side  and  the  table,  and  where  he  could  look 
me  square  in  the  face,  took  a  swallow  of  hot  tea 
from  his  saucer,  filled  in  more  potatoes,  and  con 
tinued  : 

"Me  an'  th'  ol'  woman  here,"  pointing  to  Mrs. 
Stoneman  at  his  left,  "have  lived  tewgather  nigh  on 
to  twenty-five  years,  an'  we  know  'bout  what's  what. 
She's  not  as  spry  's  she  onct  was,  an'  I  have  the 
rumatiz'  occasionally.  So  we  thought  a  boy  'bout 


'The  time  's  come  when  we  must  have  an  understandin'." — Page  16. 


Indentured.  17 

your  size  'd  help  us  'long  fur  quite  some  time  yit. 
You're  eight  neow,  an'  we  expect  tew  have  yew  till 
yer  sixteen.  Guess  yer  able  tew  earn  yer  keep,  an', 
if  ye  don't,  why,  ye'll  haf  tew,  that's  all.  Won't  'e, 
Sue?"  turning  to  his  wife,  who  nodded  modestly 
toward  him,  at  the  same  time  turning  her  small 
black  eyes  on  me  with  a  look  that  penetrated  me  like 
an  X-ray.  "Y'understand,  don't  ye,  Will?"  he  con 
tinued.  "We  ain't  no  tyrants,  an'  don't  mean  tew  mis 
use  ye  'ny,  but  know  right  here  'n'  neow  that  we  run 
things  here  an'  that  yew'll  dew  's  we  say.  There's 
yer  room  up  there,"  pointing  out  of  the  window  to  a 
small  room  over  a  shop  and  corncrib  combined,  four 
or  five  rods  from  the  kitchen,  "where  yew  can  dew  's 
ye  like,  an'  I  expect  yew  tew  be  there,  tew,  when 
night  comes  an'  not  be  out  gaddin'  round  the  coun 
try  nuther.  'F  I  ketch  ye  into  any  funny  business, 
yew'll  know  it.  As  I  hinted  afore,  yew'll  have 
'nough  t'  eat,  tew  drink,  an'  tew  wear,  but  I  sha'n't 
lose  a  cent  on  ye,  an'  I  don't  want  no  doctor  bills 
tew  pay  nuther.  Guess  we  understand  each  other 
neow,"  he  continued,  taking  the  remaining  swallow 
of  tea,  shoving  back  from  the  table,  and  wiping  his 
mouth  with  his  shirt  sleeve.  "An'  neow  fur  work. 
There's  some  weedin'  out  yender  in  the  veg'tables. 
Try  yer  hand  at  that  this  forenoon." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  went  to  his  box  of  tobacco 
on  the  kitchen  mantel,  filled  a  stub  clay  pipe,  lighted 
it,  and  went  out  to  the  barn.  I  immediately  went  to 

the  garden.    The  old  dog  bounced  out  in  my  path. 
2 


18  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

He  startled  me,  but  after  a  "Good  old  fellow"  or 
two,  and  finally  a  pat  on  the  head,  Shack  and  I  were 
made  fast  friends. 

I  had  weeded  onions  and  lettuce  before,  and  was 
perfectly  at  home.  The  day  was  warm.  I  began 
work  before  seven  o'clock.  The  sun  climbed  very 
slowly  during  the  last  two  hours  before  noon.  I 
worked  on  faithfully,  determined  that  my  master 
should  not  lose  anything  on  me,  and  also  thinking 
that  if  I  pleased  him  at  first  my  chances  for  leniency 
in  the  future  would  be  increased.  My  back  was  al 
most  broken.  I  had  been  hurrying  a  little  to  get  the 
weeds  all  out  before  noon,  and  just  as  I  pulled  the 
last  one,  and  straightened  up,  Mr.  Stoneman,  who 
was  standing  close  to  me,  spoke:  "Waal,  Will, 
yew've  done  a  good  job.  I  guess  yew  know  what  yer 
at.  Come  neow  an'  have  a  bite." 

Dinner  was  coarse  but  plenty,  and  I  did  justice  to 
it.  I  liked  the  hospitality,  so  far,  though  perhaps 
it  was  on  account  of  its  novelty.  When  I  was  told 
that  I  could  ride  a  horse  to  cultivate  corn  my  eyes 
opened  with  delight,  but  the  work  I  had  done  and 
the  amount  of  food  I  had  eaten  made  me  drowsy 
and  lazy.  Once  on  the  horse,  however,  going  back 
and  forth  between  the  rows,  I  was  wide  awake. 

"But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed." 

After  a  couple  of  hours  of  fun  the  riding  became 
grievous.  I  hitched  first  one  side  and  then  the 


Indentured.  19 

other.  A  rest  of  a  few  minutes  relieved  me  a  little, 
but  matters  soon  became  worse  than  ever.  Yet  I 
stuck  to  it  like  a  hero  without  a  murmur.  By  five 
o'clock  the  field  was  cultivated.  I  am  glad  that  in 
these  days,  except  in  heathen  countries,  the  farmers 
drive  the  horses  between  the  rows  instead  of  tortur 
ing  innocent  boys  by  making  them  ride  the  animals 
before  the  plow  or  cultivator. 

When  supper  was  over  I  was  told  to  fetch  some 
wood  into  the  kitchen,  feed  a  half-peck  of  corn  to 
the  chickens  (it  was  fun  to  run  the  sheller),  and 
carry  swill  to  the  pigs.  The  pails  were  large,  and 
after  I  had  bathed  my  legs  in  buttermilk  concluded 
to  go  oftener  with  less  load.  While  I  did  this  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Stoneman  did  the  milking.  As  I  passed 
near  them  on  the  way  to  the  pigpen  I  overheard  him 
say  to  his  wife  that  I  had  done  a  big  day's  work, 
but  he  was  afraid  that  I  had  been  so  good  that  it 
would  not  last  long.  He  was  going  to  keep  a  sharp 
eye  on  me. 

When  they  appeared  at  the  house  I  had  done  all 
that  was  required  of  me,  and  lay  on  the  grass  with 
Shack  licking  my  hand.  My  master  asked  no  ques 
tions — "Yew  c'n  tie  up  the  dog  yender,"  pointing  to 
the  kennel,  "an'  go  tew  bed,  Will.  Guess  yew've 
done  'nough."  I  arose  and,  as  I  walked  away  with 
my  hand  on  Shack's  head,  quietly  said,  "Good  night, 
Mr.  Stoneman."  He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment 
as  he  answered,  "G'd-night." 

I  could  hardly  climb  the  narrow  steps  into  my 


20  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

room.  Every  bone  in  my  body  ached.  The  board 
walls  were  veneered  with  burnished  gold  leaf,  beaten 
by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  that  streamed  in 
through  the  only  window.  The  atmosphere  in  the 
chamber  smelled  hot  and  stifling.  Presently  I  found 
a  small  door  fastened  on  the  inside  by  a  hook  and 
staple;  this  I  opened  to  let  in  the  evening  air.  I 
leaned  a  moment  on  the  doorsill,  that  was  per 
haps  a  yard  above  the  floor.  I  was  happy,  but  O,  so 
tired.  The  sun  shone  down  through  the  corn  rows 
and  the  breeze  filled  the  air  with  the  fragrance  of 
fresh  earth.  Shadows  deepened.  Lightning  bugs 
signaled  with  their  lanterns  to  the  croaking  orchestra 
in  a  sluggish  stream  winding  along  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  In  the  east  smiled  the  full,  friendly  moon. 
I  looked  at  Shack.  "Good-night,  old  fellow," 
I  said.  Sitting  on  his  haunches,  he  smacked  his 
mouth  and  yawned,  the  yawn  diminishing  to 
a  happy  whine  as  his  tail  swept  a  semicircle  of  the 
ground. 

I  turned  to  my  bed.  It  was  low  and  small.  The 
slats  were  covered  with  a  well-filled  straw  tick.  The 
bedding  was  clean  then.  A  small  box  standing  on 
end,  with  a  newspaper  for  a  spread,  was  my  table. 
A  piece  of  broken  mirror  and  part  of  a  half-toothless 
comb  constituted  my  toilet  outfit.  A  chair  without  a 
back  stood  in  the  corner,  and  a  picture  of  George 
Washington  on  the  wall  completed  my  furniture  and 
ornaments.  I  was  not  long  losing  myself  in  the 
soporific  qualities  of  the  bed.  It  was  delightful.  I 


Indentured.  21 

have  since  thought  of  that  little  room  and  the  first 
night  I  spent  in  it. 

The  last  sounds  I  heard  were  the  whistle  of  the 
engine  that  brought  me  in  the  night  before  and  the 
rattle  of  Shack's  chain  as  he  crawled  into  his  kennel. 


22  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
Sundays  on  the  Farm* 

"T  T  7 ILL!  Will!  Wi-ill!"  were  the  first 
\l \l  sounds  I  recognized  the  next  morn 
ing.  "  'S  time  yew's  up,  boy." 

I  scrambled  out  of  bed  as  quickly  as  possible, 
though  not  very  supplely,  for  my  joints  were  stiff 
and  my  muscles  sore  with  a  burning  reminder  that  I 
had  ridden  a  horse  the  day  before.  I  could  scarcely 
dress.  The  sun  was  just  rising  when  I  appeared  at 
the  kitchen  door. 

"Git  the  cows,  an'  don't  be  all  day  'bout  it,"  said 
Mr.  Stoneman  the  moment  he  saw  me.  I  immediate 
ly  started  down  the  road  toward  the  bars.  The  cows 
were  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  pasture,  and  more 
than  half  an  hour  had  passed  before  my  return.  I 
was  wet  to  my  knees  with  the  heavy  dew.  Shack 
trotted  at  my  side. 

"Yew're  a  purty-lookin'  youngster,"  said  my 
overseer.  "  'F  yew'd  mind  the  cattle  an'  not  go  gad- 
din'  off  after  woodchucks  with  the  dog  yew  wouldn't 
be  s'  wet.  Next  time  yew  go  fur  the  cows  leave  the 
cur  t'  home.  I  didn't  get  yew  tew  hunt  rabbits  an* 
play  dog.  D'ye  mind  what  I  say?  Yew  c'n  keep 
yer  soppy  duds  on  tew  pay  fur  runnin'  round  the 
lots  fur  fun  when  I's  waitin'  fur  ye  all  the  time." 


Sundays  on  the  Farm.  23 

By  tHe  time  he  had  finished  his  oration  I  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  posing  like  a  chicken 
just  removed  from  a  bath  in  a  swill-barrel.  I  started 
away  to  feed  the  pigs,  when  Shack  attempted  to  play 
with  me  by  catching  my  hand  tenderly  in  his  mouth. 
No  sooner  did  this  happen  than  Mr.  Stoneman's 
cowhide  boots  kicked  him  yelping  halfway  across 
the  yard.  The  dog  hustled  for  his  kennel ;  I  hurried 
toward  the  hogpen;  the  kicker  growled,  "I  sha'n't 
have  tew  rompin'  pups  'bout  my  premises;  no,  sir!" 

The  sense  of  humor  was  far  from  me  about  that 
time.  In  fact,  affairs  wore  a  serious  aspect.  I  be 
came  indignant,  and  concluded  in  my  own  mind 
that  my  master  was  a  scapegrace.  I  was  conscious 
that  I  had  got  the  herd  as  quickly  as  I  could  and, 
furthermore,  I  was  asked  for  no  explanation  con 
cerning  the  length  of  my  absence. 

Breakfast  was  eaten  in  silence.  No  milk  was  on 
the  table  except  a  very  little  for  coffee,  which  was 
denied  me.  I  was  hungry,  nevertheless,  and  ate 
nearly  everything  within  reach. 

The  day  passed  gloomily.  The  clouds  obscured 
the  sun.  My  clothes  kept  damp  until  nightfall.  Hoe 
ing  potatoes  was  hard  work.  At  four  o'clock  it 
began  to  rain,  but  we  worked  on  till  nearly  six.  The 
soil  became  too  wet  then  to  continue.  My  room  had 
gathered  dampness,  but  I  was  soon  warm  and  asleep 
when  I  got  a  chance  to  go  to  bed.  The  next  night 
was  hot  and  muggy.  The  mosquitoes  sang  around 
me  in  swarms.  Their  songs  I  could  endure,  but  the 


24  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

awful  suspense  and  perforation  of  my  epidermis  be 
came  unbearable.  I  did  not  dare  ask  for  netting. 
My  lord  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  blotches  and 
bloodstains  on  my  face  and  hands.  Perhaps  he 
thought  my  blood  so  thick  that  the  hummers  could 
not  suck  sufficient  of  it  out  to  weaken  me,  or  else  it 
was  so  thin  that  it  would  do  no  harm  to  drain  my 
capillaries.  Anyway,  I  was  food  for  the  fowls  of 
the  air — Jersey  mosquitoes. 

Sunday  morning  dawned.  I  wondered  what 
would  happen.  I  had  awakened  without  assistance. 
Hearing  no  stir  outside,  I  remained  quiet  and  rested. 
My  body  was  full  of  aches  and  stiffness.  The  sun 
had  already  peeped  in  through  the  knot-holes  of  my 
dormitory.  Rolling  over,  I  dropped  into  a  Sunday 
morning  doze,  so  customary  among  lazy  people. 
Again  I  awoke,  but  there  was  no  stir  yet.  I  yawned, 
counted  the  rafters  in  the  roof,  then  the  cracks  be 
tween  the  boards,  and  finally  the  spots  of  sunlight 
that  streamed  through  them.  Dressing  and  descend 
ing  to  the  ground,  Shack  was  the  only  individual  to 
greet  me.  Patting  his  head  for  a  moment,  I  strolled 
toward  the  pasture.  The  sun  was  high,  and  the  dew 
nearly  gone.  Just  as  I  drove  the  cows  into  the  barn 
yard  Mr.  Stoneman  appeared  with  the  milk  pails, 
yawning  and  moping  along  as  if  the  day  belonged  to 
the  chief  of  laziness,  instead  of  to  God.  The  chores 
were  finished  and  breakfast  eaten  in  the  same  slug 
gish  manner.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  I  came 
out  of  the  kitchen  from  the  morning  meal.  For  the 


Sundays  on  the  Farm.  25 

first  time  since  my  arrival  I  felt  lonesome.  At  the 
orphanage  I  had  learned  something  of  the  Sabbath 
day  and  religious  services,  and  could  tell  a  Bible 
when  I  saw  one.  At  my  new  home,  however,  no 
book  had,  as  yet,  appeared.  I  had  not  been  permitted 
to  tread  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  front  room,  there 
fore  was  not  competent  to  judge  whether  or  no  the 
Book  was  there.  I  had  not  been  off  the  premises 
since  I  came  onto  them  in  the  darkness.  My  horizon 
of  observation  was  therefore  limited.  No  visitors 
had  entered  our  front  gate,  for  few  travelers  passed. 
Whether  a  church  or  schoolhouse  stood  within  forty 
miles  of  the  farm  was  more  than  I  knew.  One  thing 
I  had  learned,  namely,  to  ask  no  questions. 

I  lay  on  the  grass  with  Shack  at  my  side.  About 
ten  of  the  clock  visitors  arrived.  The  horse  was 
poor,  the  wagon  rickety,  harness  tied  up  with  bag 
strings,  and  the  husband,  wife,  and  three  children 
correspondingly  slovenly  in  appearance,  language, 
and,  I  afterward  learned,  in  morals.  This  was  my 
introduction  to  Sunday  visiting.  Since  then  I  have 
seen  much  of  it.  Men  living  in  towns,  pressed  with 
business  during  the  week,  of  a  Sunday  morning  ride 
out  to  see  their  tenants  on  rural  property  and  to  over 
see  their  interests.  No  time  to  visit  the  farm  offered 
itself  to  them  except  that  day.  Such  landlords  I 
have  known  to  leave  their  church,  Sunday  school, 
and  other  religious  services,  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
to  pat  their  tenants  on  the  back  and  say  "You're 
doing  well  here  this  year,"  I  have  also  wondered 


26  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

how  much  welldoing  lay  credited  to  their  account 
in  the  ledger  of  the  Lord's  vineyard.  They  are  like 
the  man  I  once  read  of  who,  when  asked  to  attend 
a  great  supper,  said,  "I  have  bought  a  piece  of 
ground,  and  I  must  needs  go  and  see  it;  I  pray  thee 
have  me  excused." 

But  Nat  Walker  did  not  come  to  look  at  the  farm. 
He  came  to  talk  over  the  bargain  made  between 
him  and  Stoneman  a  few  days  previous  concerning 
the  horse  that  he  drove.  He  had  made  a  glaring 
discovery  of  a  slight  blemish  on  its  near  hind  leg 
and  thought  a  little  "boot"  of  some  sort  ought  to  be 
allowed  him.  I  paid  little  atention  to  their  bickering, 
which  was  carried  on  in  a  friendly  spirit.  Every 
thing  passed  off  smoothly.  Dinner  was  served 
about  three  o'clock.  Bounteous  culinary  art  graced 
the  table,  though  the  visiting  children  disgraced  it. 
The  parents  had  no  control  over  the  youngsters. 
Fork,  knife,  spoon,  or  hand  carried  food  to  their 
face,  some  entering  the  mouth,  the  rest  missing. 
The  men  conversed  in  subdued  tones.  Mrs.  Walker 
scolded  and  cuffed. 

Mrs.  Stoneman  apoligized  for  the  scanty  dinner 
and  urged  the  children  on  in  their  depredations  by 
saying,  "O,  never  mind  the  tablecloth,  let  the  chil 
dren  have  a  good  time."  They  had  it,  together  with 
everything  in  reach.  In  the  confusion  I  attended 
strictly  to  supplying  the  wants  of  the  inner  boy. 
I  marveled  also,  as  some  children  do,  if  these 
people  ever  attended  church,  and  if  youngsters 


Sundays  on  the  Farm.  27 

could  possibly  perform  pranks  of  this  sort  when  ac 
customed  to  the  religious  instructions  of  a  Christian 
home. 

But  the  hours  wore  on,  and  about  five  o'clock, 
when  Nat  Walker  drove  out  into  the  road,  I  noticed 
the  handles  of  an  old  discarded  flat-land  plow  pro 
truding  from  under  the  rear  seat  of  his  wagon.  I 
concluded  that  Stoneman  had  settled  the  horse  trade 
with  the  old  plow  "to  boot." 

As  the  first  week  and  Sunday  passed,  so  passed 
the  following  days  of  work  and  of  rest,  but  the 
monotony  was  broken  one  afternoon  by  the  appear 
ance  of  a  young  man  coming  cross-lots  into  the 
field  where  I  was  raking  buckwheat.  "Hello,  my 
boy!"  was  his  friendly  salutation.  "What  is  your 
name?  Isn't  this  pretty  hard  work  for  a  lad  of 
your  size?" 

The  kindly  words  and  smiling  face  of  the  speaker 
startled  me  at  first.  Regaining  my  composure,  I 
answered  as  best  I  could,  feeling  all  the  while  that  I 
had  found  a  friend  in  somebody.  He  took  my  rake 
from  me,  raked  a  bundle,  set  it  up,  and,  sitting  down 
on  a  stone,  continued  his  questions.  I  told  him 
nearly  everything  I  knew  and  all  about  myself. 
Nothing  was  kept  back.  We  were  having  a  splendid 
time  when  Mr.  Stoneman  came  into  the  field  with  a 
jug  of  water — he  was  water  boy.  My  friend  ad 
vanced  to  him  with  outstretched  hand,  saying: 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Stoneman?  My  name  is 
Leeder,  pastor  of  the  little  Methodist  church  over 


28  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

at  New  Dover.  I  have  not  seen  you  out  to  our 
services  yet." 

By  that  time  I  was  out  of  hearing,  for  I  imme 
diately  resumed  the  rake  when  my  superior  came. 
Mr.  Leeder  talked  a  long  time  with  Mr.  Stoneman, 
and  when  he  passed  me  on  his  way  out  of  the  field 
told  me  that  he  had  made  arrangements  for  me  to 
come  over  to  church  and  Sunday  school  every  Sun 
day  after  that  at  half-past  ten.  With  a  warm  grip 
of  the  hand  and  a  hearty  "Good-bye,"  and  a  "God 
bless  you,  Willie,"  he  was  gone. 

I  had  something  now  to  live  for.  The  day  came 
at  last.  I  was  not  so  crippled  as  in  former  times,  for 
I  had  got  used  to  my  fare.  Before  the  appointed 
hour  I  was  on  the  steps  of  the  little  church,  nestling 
behind  two  tall  pines  and  almost  obscured  by  maples 
and  elms.  While  I  stood  there  several  persons 
passed  in,  but  none  spoke  to  me.  I  saw  Mr.  Leeder 
coming  down  the  road.  Would  he  know  me?  As 
he  sprang  lightly  out  of  the  carriage  he  grasped  me 
by  the  hand  warmly  with  a  "Good-morning,  Willie ! 
I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Just  come  right  inside." 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  I  was  comfort 
ably  seated  within  and  waiting.  I  do  not  remember 
much  of  the  sermon,  but  the  text,  "Inasmuch  as  ye 
have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  my 
brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me,"  is  indelibly 
written  on  my  memory. 

By  the  manner  that  the  pastor  looked  after  me, 
I  was  his  special  guest.  Placed  in  a  class  of  boys  of 


Sundays  on  the  Farm.  29 

about  my  age  and  under  the  instruction  of  Miss  Rey 
nolds,  I  seemed  at  the  very  gate  of  Beulah.  I  re 
ceived  a  "lesson  quarterly."  That,  with  a  copy  of 
the  Sunday  School  Advocate,  was  the  nucleus  of  my 
private  library  and  reading  room.  It  seems  little 
enough  now,  but  it  meant  wonders  to  me  then. 

That  evening  the  cows  seemed  to  drive  easier; 
the  words  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stoneman  were  like 
music ;  old  Shack  seemed  the  only  dog  in  the  world, 
and  my  attic  was  a  palace.  The  weeks  passed.  They 
were  tedious,  but  I  could  endure  all  so  long  as  I  had 
the  Sunday  coming  as  a  reward. 

"Day  of  all  the  week  the  best, 
Emblem  of  eternal  rest." 

Mr.  Leeder  never  came  out  to  see  us  again.  He 
was  yet  a  student  in  theology  and  unable  to  be  on 
his  charge  except  during  vacation  and  over  Sunday. 
But  I  saw  him  every  Sabbath.  That  was  sufficient 
for  me.  Yet  I  did  wish  that  he  might  be  my  brother 
— my  elder  brother.  He  had  already  proven  himself 
a  spiritual  brother,  over  and  over  again. 

One  day  a  Mr.  Ambrose  preached  in  his  place.  I 
did  not  like  him,  because  I  understood  little  that  he 
talked  about.  His  not  speaking  to  me  did  not  exalt 
him  in  my  estimation.  The  congregation,  however, 
liked  him,  on  account  of  his  culture  and  oratory, 
which  they  said  were  fine.  Perhaps  they  were; 
nevertheless  I  was  not  so  impressed. 


30  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  V. 
At  School. 

IT  was  a  cold  November  twilight.  I  had  come  in 
from  work  wet  to  the  skin  and  shivering.  The 
east  wind,  so  penetrating  in  New  Jersey,  had 
pelted  mist  and  rain  at  me  all  day.  The  late  after 
noon  added  sleet.  While  drying  my  clothing  by  the 
kitchen  fire  and  resting  a  few  minutes  before  supper, 
Mr.  Stoneman,  removing  the  clay  stub  from  his 
mouth,  said  kindly,  after  he  had  blown  a  quantity 
of  smoke  from  his  face  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  a  volcanic  crater,  "Waal,  Will."  I  looked  up  in 
surprise.  "Yew've  ben  a  purty  good  worker  this 
summer.  Me  an'  the  ole  woman's  ben  talkin'  'bout 
yew  this  afternoon,  an'  I  concluded  tew  send  yew 
up  t'  Oak  Tree  tew  school  this  winter.  Injin  sum 
mer's  over,  an'  I  guess  farmin's  'bout  played  out  fur 
quite  some  time  yit.  Yew  might's  well  git  s'  more 
learnin'  's  tew  lay  round  here.  It's  a  mile  'n' 
a  half  up  there,  an'  yew  c'n  walk  it  in  twenty 
minutes.  Don't  yew  let  me  ketch  ye  leavin'  the 
house  fur  school  sooner'n  that  time  afore  nine.  Yew 
c'n  begin  Monday."  Wheeling  his  chair  from  the 
stove  round  to  the  table,  he  began  eating.  I  needed 
no  invitation  to  follow  his  example. 

Supper  over  and  the  chores  all  done,  I  sat  by  the 


At  School.  31 

stove  until  thoroughly  dry  and  warm.  It  was  still 
storming  when  I  went  to  my  sleeping  room.  Ice 
covered  the  ground.  Shack  shivered  and  whined 
as  I  passed  him.  A  happy  thought  struck  me, 
though  the  result  a  few  days  later  was  not  so  pleas 
ant.  Unsnapping  the  chain  from  the  dog's  collar,  I 
let  him  follow  me  to  my  chamber.  Before  many 
minutes  I  was  in  bed  and  Shack  on  it — a  guest  of 
honor.  I  had  shivered  enough  that  day  and  am  sure 
the  dog  had,  and,  thus  mutually  agreed,  dog  and 
boy  slept  till  morning  as  cozy  as  "two  bugs  in  a 
rug."  The  storm  continued  at  daylight.  The  fields 
in  which  I  had  toiled  all  summer  lay  beneath  a  cover 
ing  of  snow  while  I  snoozed  under  the  warm  cover 
let  canis  boni.  It  was  Sunday.  Turning  my  back 
on  my  friend,  comfort  was  mine  in  a  morning  nap. 
But  Mr.  Stoneman  had  better  staying  qualities  than 
I  had,  for  I  had  nearly  completed  the  chores  at  the 
barn  when  he  came  stalking  in  with  the  milk  pail. 

Promptly  at  eight-forty  the  next  morning  I  left 
the  house  for  school,  with  my  dinner  in  a  two-quart 
pail.  I  was  happy  all  over,  snuggled  up  in  a  new 
coat,  manufactured  out  of  my  master's  old  one.  A 
pair  of  new  cowhide  boots,  a  secondhand  cap  over 
my  head  and  ears,  and  a  pair  of  Mrs.  Stoneman's 
cast-off  mittens,  into  which  my  hands  were  loosely 
tucked  up,  completed  my  wardrobe.  The  wind  was 
biting,  and  blowing  almost  a  gale,  yet  I  faced  it 
with  the  ease  of  a  giant. 

Nearing  the   schoolhouse,,   I  heard  a  burst  of 


32  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

laughter  from  a  group  of  boys  standing  in  the  door 
way  and  hall.  One  voice  exclaimed  above  all  others, 
"Well,  if  here  don't  come  Jake  Stoneman's  kid." 
Entering  the  door  I  said,  "Good-morning."  Only 
one  boy  whom  I  had  met  at  New  Dover  Sunday 
school  answered  me.  The  others  stood  back  to  right 
and  left  as  I  entered  the  inner  door,  hearing  behind 
me  something  like  these  remarks:  "Old  Jake's 
gettin'  liberal  with  'is  clothes,  ain't  *e?"  "Guess 
stony  Sarah'll  have  cold  fingers  now."  These  were 
the  first  intimation  I  had  heard  that  the  Stonemans 
passed  in  the  neighborhood  as  penurious.  That  ac 
counted  for  me  not  getting  into  society  any  and  very 
few  ever  coming  to  my  abiding  place.  Stingy  souls 
seldom  get  large  enough  to  be  noticed,  even  in  a 
sparsely  settled  community. 

Miss  Sadie  Colder,  the  teacher,  bell  in  hand,  just 
opening  the  door  to  call  school,  met  me.  Her  genial 
manner  and  inviting  face,  like  veritable  sunbeams, 
penetrated  me  in  an  instant.  It  was  worth  facing  a 
north  wind  a  dozen  times.  "Good-morning,"  she 
said,  with  a  sweetness  that  fell  over  me  like  an 
evening  breeze  sifted  through  a  bank  of  blooming 
lilacs.  While  I  answered  she  asked  my  name  and 
whence  I  came.  Learning  all  the  facts  in  the  case, 
she  seemed  the  more  pleased  to  see  me  and  to  help 
me  to  select  a  good,  comfortable  seat  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  near  the  stove.  I  did  not  know 
much,  but  what  I  knew,  I  knew.  She  was  surprised 
that  an  urchin  like  me  should  want  to  read  in  the 


At  School.  33 

National  Second  Reader,  but  when  she  heard  me 
read  she  was  more  surprised.  No  wonder,  for  her 
mind  had  been  flooded  with  all  manner  of  gossip 
concerning  me,  my  origin,  and  my  present  environ 
ment.  Too  great-hearted  to  be  prejudiced  and  too 
generous  to  be  partial,  Miss  Colder  took  me  into 
her  confidence  at  once.  I  was  boyish  enough  to  tell 
her  one  day  how  I  liked  her,  and  that  she  was  as 
good  as  Mr.  Leeder,  who  preached  down  at  the 
Methodist  church.  "Did  you  ever  see  him?"  I 
asked,  looking  up  from  my  book  to  her  sunlit  face. 
Her  countenance  changed  instantly  to  a  crimson  in 
stead  of  pink.  The  snickers  of  the  larger  boys  and 
girls  around  the  stove  made  her  blush  all  the  more, 
and  finally  caused  her  to  rise  and  leave  the  group  to 
do  some  work  on  the  blackboard.  I  was  innocent 
then,  and  am  yet,  for  that  matter — though  I  have 
since  learned  that  the  ones  we  most  love  and  the 
names  we  like  best  to  hear  spoken,  if  mentioned  in 
nocently,  are  like  darts  hurled  from  a  sure  hand.  I 
am  no  Cupid,  but  I  shot  an  arrow  that  day  that  went 
straight  to  the  heart. 

Time  flew  too  rapidly.  Winter  came  on,  cold  and 
bleak.  Shack  and  I  kept  each  other  nocturnal  com 
pany.  One  morning  Mr.  Stoneman  rose  sooner 
than  usual  in  order  to  get  an  early  start  to  Rahway. 
Coming  up  into  my  room  to  waken  me,  he  caught 
my  friend  on  the  bed.  The  devil  was  let  loose,  sure. 
Holding  the  lantern  up  before  his  face,  he  looked 
first  at  me,  shivering  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  then  at 


34  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  dog,  whose  head  rested  between  his  forepaws 
upon  the  counterpane,  his  ears  hanging  limp  at  the 
sides  of  his  head  and  eyes  blinking  at  the  light  and 
more  flaming  master,  as  if  expecting  an  immediate 
earthquake.  It  came.  Seizing  the  cur  by  the  nape 
of  the  neck,  Stoneman  hurled  him  from  the  bed  with 
the  force  that  made  the  bones  crack,  and  as  the  poor 
fellow  staggered  to  his  feet  with  a  ki-yi  he  kicked 
him  down  the  steps,  end  over  end.  Turning  down 
the  bedclothes,  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  he  fetched 
me  out  of  bed  standing.  At  this  particular  exigency 
he  found  his  speech,  a  part  of  which  I  will  omit. 
"Neow,  boy,  onct  an'  fur  all,  I  want  no  more  o' 
this  blasted  nastiness.  'F  yew  want  tew  sleep  with 
the  dog,  go  tew  'is  kennel,  but,"  raising  his  voice  to 
a  scream,  "don't  yew  never  fetch — that  dirty  whelp 
• — on  this  clean  bed  no  more."  Mrs.  Stoneman  had 
washed  the  sheets  before  I  came  there,  six  months 
before.  "By  George  Harry,  ye  ain't  fit  tew  live,"  he 
howled,  as  he  shook  me  by  the  shoulder  as  a  terrier 
would  shake  a  rat.  Dropping  me  at  last,  as  if  I 
were  a  hot  iron,  he  stamped  down  the  stairs. 

The  weather  continued  cold.  School  furnished 
my  only  relief.  Returning  home  that  evening,  Shack 
did  not  meet  me  at  the  top  of  the  hill  as  had  been 
his  custom.  Mr.  Stoneman  had  not  yet  returned, 
so  I  ventured  to  go  to  the  kennel.  The  poor  brute 
shivered  from  the  cold  and  was  too  lame  to  come 
out  of  his  nest.  There  had  been  no  food  given  him 
that  day;  at  least,  no  tracks  in  the  snow  indicated 


At  School.  35 

it.  I  ventured  a  few  consoling  words  and  hurried 
on  to  the  barn.  Night  came  on,  and  still  no  Stone- 
man.  Under  cover  of  darkness  I  carried  some  clean 
straw  to  the  kennel,  hung  a  piece  of  old  carpet  at 
the  door,  and,  finding  some  food  at  the  table,  on  the 
sly,  of  course,  and  in  the  slop  pail,  fed  the  starving- 
animal,  trusting  the  wind  and  snow  to  cover  my 
tracks  before  daylight. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  retire  the  belated  man  came. 
His  delay  was  on  account  of  being  obliged  to  wait 
his  turn  for  his  horseshoeing.  I  had  done  all  the 
chores  and  met  him  at  the  barn  with  a  lantern.  Tak 
ing  the  light  from  my  hand  as  we  left  the  barn,  he 
bade  me  go  to  bed.  My  feet  were  cold  and  my  body 
was  chilled  from  holding  the  light  for  him  to  unhitch 
the  team.  Hours  passed  before  I  fell  asleep.  When 
I  awoke  I  was  stiff  with  cold.  I  appeared  pinched 
and  blue.  Not  until  I  had  run  halfway  to  school 
and  sat  in  the  warm  schoolroom  an  hour  was  I 
thoroughly  comfortable. 

That  day  I  did  not  eat  all  my  dinner;  the  rem 
nant  I  left  in  the  pail.  The  following  day  my  luncK 
consisted  of  what  I  had  not  eaten  the  day  before, 
with  slight  additions.  This,  however,  did  not  occur 
many  times.  Strange  to  say,  I  had  a  hankering  for 
fresh  victuals.  Across  the  road,  on  my  way  to 
school,  ran  a  brook  that  told  no  tales.  The  wooden 
bridge  that  spanned  the  stream  furnished  an  excel 
lent  position  for  feeding  the  fishes.  I  fed  them. 
They  told  no  tales  either.  But  the  day  of  which  I 


36  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

write  the  surplus  provisions,  together  with  some  I 
really  wanted  myself,  I  saved  for  Shack.  He  met 
me  as  was  his  wont,  but  lame  and  crestfallen.  It 
took  him  but  a  moment  to  devour  the  contents  of 
my  dinner  pail.  Almost  his  entire  supply  of  pro 
visions  for  the  remainder  of  the  winter  came  from 
the  above-mentioned  source. 

Shack  was  not  much  of  a  dog,  measured  by  a 
standard  of  breed  and  manners,  though  he  did  know 
a  friend  when  he  found  one,  and  knew  enough  to 
appreciate  friendship,  too.  I  suppose  that,  accord 
ing  to  philosophical  dogma  or  humanitarian  caprice, 
only  human  beings  are  capable  of  friendship.  Never 
theless,  I  have  seen  dogs  manifest  more  affection 
toward  their  kind,  and  unkind  as  well,  than  some 
animals  who  passed  for  humankind. 

The  cold  snap  and  cold  bed  told  on  my  constitu 
tion.  The  other  members  of  the  family  noticed  the 
change.  The  night  will  never  be  forgotten  when  I 
was  told  I  could  sleep  in  the  garret  over  the  kitchen. 
The  room  was  real  cozy.  The  same  old  bed  graced 
it,  with  some  of  its  staleness  removed  by  soap  and 
water.  Home  life  grew  better.  I  dried  my  boots 
and  stockings  about  the  stovepipe,  if,  perchance,  I 
had  played  in  the  snow  too  much  at  school.  All  I 
lacked  in  those  days  was  my  dinner,  but  the  satis 
faction  and  appreciation  of  Shack  as  he  gulped  it 
down,  sometimes  a  whole  biscuit  at  once,  more  than 
compensated  me  for  my  self-denial. 
"  One  morning,  while  waiting  for  Mrs.  Stoneman 


At  School.  37 

to  put  up  my  dinner,  she  remarked,  "Willie,  ain't 
there  any  bottom  to  your  stomach?"  The  empty 
pail  every  night  had  excited  her  curiosity,  for  all 
the  while  she  had  been  increasing  the  quantity  and 
really  meant  to  give  me  enough  to  eat. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Stoneman,"  I  answered,  "perhaps 
there  isn't,  but  I  don't  waste  a  bit.  Every  crumb  is 
eaten  up,  slick  and  clean." 

My  veracity  was  never  questioned,  and,  when  as 
sured  that  none  was  wasted,  she  was  content.  So 
also  was  Shack.  Even  he  showed  signs  of  improve 
ment. 

My  diligent  work  at  school  and  the  supposed  par 
tiality  of  the  teacher  toward  me  naturally  brought 
on  jealousy.  I  was  the  innocent  party,  of  course, 
and  suffered  the  consequences,  as  I  will  relate. 

Joe  Thomas,  a  good-looking  young  man,  though 
not  a  bookworm,  by  any  means,  somehow  or  other 
took  a  dislike  to  me.  He  had  twin  brothers,  just  a 
little  older  than  I,  and  considerably  larger.  Joe 
quietly  kept  those  boys  tantalizing  me  whenever  he 
got  me  out  of  sight  from  the  teacher.  One  nooning 
all  the  boys  went  over  the  knoll  to  a  clay  pit,  where 
a  small  area  of  ice  made  excellent  skating.  I  came 
on  the  ice  the  last  one.  As  I  drew  near  I  received 
this  greeting:  "Here  comes  Jake's  brat!"  one  of 
the  twins  bawled  out ;  "he's  the  teacher's  spot,"  re 
ferring  to  my  pockmarked  face.  "Hello,  spotty! 
come,  spot !  come,  spot !"  ending  with  a  whistle  com 
monly  given  to  call  a  dog.  But  I  did  not  call. 


38  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Not  long  afterward  the  twins  kept  sliding  nearer 
to  me,  each  pass  attempting  to  trip  me.  I  did 
not  mind  the  fall  two  or  three  times,  but  when 
it  came  to  a  half  dozen  or  more  my  anger  began 
to  rise. 

"Will  you  please  stop  tripping  me?"  I  respectfully 
asked  them.  Instantly  they  sent  up  a  cry,  "Hear 
Jake's  brat!"  and  with  it  a  punch  in  my  ribs.  My 
little  nine-year-old  body  bristled. 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game,  if  you  please,"  I 
replied,  knowing  that  they  with  the  help  of  Joe  could 
paralyze  me  in  about  a  minute,  but  I  determined  to 
be  game  to  the  last,  depending  somewhat  on  the 
sympathy  and  assistance  of  some  of  the  other  boys 
who  were  my  friends,  and  more  afraid  of  the  trio 
than  I  was. 

The  only  answer  was,  "Look  out  for  Jake's  Billy ! 
Billy  goat  is  coming — look  out!"  And  I  did  come, 
too,  landing  on  Tommy's  jaw.  He  immediately 
sprawled  off  howling  toward  Joe,  who  at  once 
skated  up  to  me  with,  "You  young  brat,  just  lay 
hands  on  one  o'  my  brothers  again  and  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  your  body,"  at  the  same  time  cuffing 
me  over  the  ice.  I  struck  on  my  face,  but  soon  re 
gained  my  feet,  the  blood  spurting  from  my  nose. 

The  smell  of  gore  completely  aroused  the  tiger  in 
me.  I  seized  a  loose  stone  from  the  bank  and  hurled 
it  at  him  with  all  my  might.  It  missed  its  mark. 
He  skated  near  me  again  to  slap  me,  but  I  was  off 
the  ice  enough  to  dodge  his  long  swing  from  the 


At  School.  39 

shoulder.  This  was  my  opportunity,  and  I  seized  it. 
Grasping  a  scraggly  root  from  the  shore  I  slipped  it 
between  his  legs  and  threw  him  headlong  sprawling 
all  over  the  ice.  At  that  juncture  the  twins  jumped 
onto  me.  The  battle  had  begun  in  earnest.  Joe 
scrambled  to  his  feet  and  rushed  at  me  like  a  mad 
bull.  Charlie  Lumm  leaped  in  front  of  him,  shout 
ing,  "Hold  on,  Joe!  Fair  play!  Two's  enough!" 
The  words  were  cut  short  by  Joe's  fist.  Charlie 
reeled,  and  before  he  really  knew  what  hit  him  half 
a  dozen  other  lads  were  on  Joe. 

In  the  meantime,  the  twins  and  myself  rolled  and 
tumbled  down  the  bank  and  onto  the  ice,  leaving  be 
hind  a  trail  of  crimson.  By  that  time  I  was  not  the 
only  one  bleeding.  One  of  the  boys  had  got  away 
from  me,  running  for  the  schoolhouse  and  yelling 
at  every  jump;  the  other  one  I  still  held  down.  Joe 
lay  begging  for  mercy  from  his  captors,  when  we 
were  all  startled  by  the  kind  voice  of  Miss  Colder, 
who  had  stood  by,  a  silent  spectator,  long  enough 
to  know  all  about  the  war,  its  causes  and  results. 

"There,  boys,  that  will  do.  I  am  very  sorry  you 
cannot  play  together  like  gentlemen." 

We  followed  her  to  the  schoolroom  like  dogged 
prisoners  of  war.  I  was  in  the  worst  plight  of  any 
one.  My  nose  was  swollen,  my  face  and  hands 
gory.  Taking  an  old  apron  from  the  closet  and 
putting  it  around  her,  Miss  Colder  washed  and 
rubbed  my  face  as  tenderly  as  a  mother.  I  was  al 
most  glad  to  be  battered  up  that  I  might  receive  such 


40  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

v 
kindness,  even  though  I  was  ashamed  enough  to 

hide  my  face. 

After  the  others  had  gone  home  Charlie  and  I 
remained  to  apologize  for  our  insubordination.  She 
had  forbidden  fighting. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  replied :  "I  think  I  can 
trust  you,  boys,  and  tell  you  that  you  did  right. 
You  were  not  in  the  fault,  and  only  defended  your 
selves,  yet  I'm  sorry  it  happened.  We  won't  have 
any  more  such  battles,  will  we?"  and  she  bowed  her 
head  on  the  table. 

Charlie  and  I  stood  there  for  a  minute  in  silence. 
Without  a  word  he  went  out  of  the  room  and  home. 
In  a  moment  the  teacher  raised  her  head,  put  out 
her  hand,  and  drew  me  to  her  arms.  I  was  only  a 
lad  of  nine,  but  that  one  hug  and  warm  kiss  on  my 
swollen  and  spotted  face  has  kept  me  from  many  a 
snare.  My  little  heart  was  broken,  yet  what  a  pleas 
ant  break  it  was  as  my  feelings  burst  out  in  a  flood 
of  tears. 

She  talked  to  me  until  my  loneliness  left  me.  I 
realized  that  I  had  found  a  mother,  a  sister,  a  friend, 
all  in  one.  Her  kind  words  and  parting  benediction 
gave  me  courage.  There  was  something  in  the 
world  now  worth  living  for,  and  I  determined  to 
live  for  it — I  would  always  be  on  the  side  of  right. 

Another  fight  at  Oak  Tree  school  never  occurred 
while  I  attended  it,  and  as  long  as  Miss  Colder 
taught  it.  I  walked  borne  on  air  that  night,  and 
would  have  taken  delight  in  giving  forty  dinners  to 


At  School.  41 

Shack  had  they  been  mine  to  give.  I  thought  my 
home  as  good  as  any.  I  knew  my  teacher  was  the 
best  in  the  world,  for  she  lived  "pure  religion  and 
undefiled  before  God."  I  lacked  but  one  thing — a 
brother  to  whom  I  might  confide  all  my  joys,  sor 
rows,  and  triumphs. 


42  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


M 


CHAPTER  VI. 
I  Go  a-Fishing. 

ORE  than  a  year  had  passed  since  the  battle 
at  the  clay  pit.  I  longed  to  visit  the  scenes 
of  the  fray,  for  the  boys  told  me  "there 
were  slathers  o'  bullheads  in  the  old  hole."  I  had 
never  been  a-fishing,  and  a  desire  to  go  had  grown 
into  a  burning  passion.  The  opportunity  arrived 
at  last. 

Mr.  Stoneman  had  been  called  to  New  Bruns 
wick  for  a  week  to  serve  as  traverse  juror  during 
the  May  term  of  court.  He  went  away  on  Monday, 
with  instructions  for  me  to  attend  to  the  chores, 
help  his  wife  plant  in  the  garden,  and,  what  spare 
time  I  had,  to  clean  out  the  shed  where  the  sheep 
had  wintered.  This  last  task  was  enough  for  any 
one  boy  to  do,  but  you,  reader,  know  how  much  a 
boy  can  do  in  a  very  short  time  provided  he  be 
privileged  to  sit  a  few  hours  in  the  rain  on  the  bank 
of  a  pool  and  hold  a  fishpole. 

On  Tuesday  the  plan  of  a  fishing  excursion  was 
conceived.  I  boyishly  prayed  for  propitious  weather. 
I  was  unable  to  work  in  the  shed  for  the  first  two 
days.  The  garden  received  all  my  attention,  and 
that  of  Mrs.  Stoneman's  as  well  Wednesday  she 
was  unable  to  be  out  in  the  sun  on  account  of  over- 


I  Go  a-Fishing.  43 

exertion  the  day  previous.  That  was  my  golden 
opportunity.  If  ever  a  boy  worked  in  his  life  Stone- 
man's  Billy  tugged  and  sweat  and  jerked  and  pulled 
that  day.  By  chore  time  the  job  was  done.  My, 
but  I  was  lame  and  tired!  What  of  that  compared 
with  the  coming  gala  day ! 

"If  it  will  only  rain  to-morrow,"  thought  I,  "there 
is  a  certainty  that  by  nightfall  few  bullheads  will 
remain  in  the  clay  pit."  But  it  didn't  rain.  The 
garden  absorbed  all  my  time.  In  the  afternoon,  how 
ever,  a  shower,  followed  by  a  slight  haze,  indicated 
a  storm.  Instead  of  going  to  bed  direct  in  the  even 
ing,  I  took  a  roundabout  path  to  our  next  neigh 
bor's  and  quietly  borrowed  fishing  tackle  against 
the  coming  Good  Friday — so  it  seemed  to  me,  at 
least. 

When  I  awoke  Friday  morning  the  sweetest 
music  that  ever  floated  into  a  boy's  ears  floated  into 
mine.  It  was  raining.  The  gentle  drizzle  on  the 
roof  and  the  sloppy  drip  of  the  eaves  told  me  that  it 
was  no  passing  shower.  One  thing  was  settled  al 
ready  :  I  could  not  work  in  the  garden  that  day.  I 
had  to  churn  in  the  forenoon,  but  as  soon  as  my 
cold  lunch  was  swallowed  (I  always  lunched  at  noon 
when  the  proprietor  was  away  from  home)  I 
hastened  to  the  barn  with  an  intimation  to  Mrs. 
Stoneman  that  the  shed  would  be  clean  that  after 
noon.  It  was. 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  Shack  and  his 
youthful  master,  equipped  with  all  the  necessary 


44  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

piscatory  paraphernalia,  sallied  into  the  barn, 
through  it  into  the  meadow  beyond,  and  through 
the  meadow  and  the  rain  into  the  woods.  The 
old  coat  that  Mr.  Stoneman  used  about  the  barn 
served  me  as  an  extra  covering.  I  knew  that  if 
asked  by  the  aforesaid  gentleman  why  it  was  wet 
the  fact  that  I  had  worn  it  in  a  shower  the  night 
before  while  after  the  cows  would  be  sufficient 
explanation. 

The  drip  from  the  foliage,  the  gentle  showers 
upon  me  as  I  tripped  and  stumbled  into  a  sap 
ling  or  bush,  and  the  novelty  of  the  sport,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  numerous  briers,  were  certainly  ex 
hilarating. 

Once  at  the  water's  edge,  the  real  fun  began.  The 
angle-worms  wriggled  and  corkscrewed.  I  jabbed 
at  the  squirming  coil,  only  to  puncture  my  thumb. 
At  last  I  transfixed  one  amidship  and  threw  off  shore 
for  a  catch.  I  caught,  or  rather  my  hook  caught,  into 
a  snag.  Endeavoring  to  get  it  loose,  and  while 
leaning  far  out  over  the  water,  pulling  and  twisting 
the  pole  and  line  hither  and  thither — lo!  I  was  lift 
off  the  ground  on  the  toe  of  a  boot.  I  struck  the 
water  about  halfway  to  the  line.  While  soaring 
through  the  air,  like  a  flying  squirrel — for  my  great 
coat  flapping  on  my  outstretched  arms  must  have 
made  me  appear  as  such — the  gentle  words  of  Stone 
man  fell  upon  my  ear:  "Go  t'  the  bottom  fur  yer 
hook,  yew  blasted  brat !" 

But  I  did  not  find  the  hook.    The  bottom  of  the 


I  Go  a-Fishing.  45 

pit  was  quite  hard,  and  when  my  feet  touched  it, 
involuntarily,  I  kicked.  My  head  shot  out  of  water 
as  I  spouted  like  a  whale.  Before  the  limpid  liquid 
was  all  discharged  my  head  was  submerged  again. 
I  had  found  a  little  more  than  my  depth.  My  head 
must  have  bobbed  up  and  down  like  a  huge  cork 
with  a  darting  bass  on  the  hook.  I  danced  around 
the  clay  pit  spouting,  blubbering,  yelling,  and  gasp 
ing,  all  at  the  same  time,  the  water  just  about  to  my 
ears  if  I  had  stood  on  tiptoe.  In  the  meanwhile, 
when  nearly  exhausted,  unconsciously  waltzing  near 
my  tormentor,  he  hit  me  a  tunk  on  the  head  with  a 
pole,  remarking,  "  'F  ye  think  ye  c'n  stay  where  ye 
b'long,  take  holt  o'  this  'ere." 

Snapping  at  the  pole  for  life,  I  proved  to  be  the 
first  bullhead  landed  that  day — according  to  Stone- 
man's  opinion.  Lying  in  the  wet  bushes  a  few  mo 
ments,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  consider  what 
"fisherman's  luck"  was,  that  Good  Friday  was  no 
more,  and,  above  all,  that  I  had  fished  enough.  An 
other  conclusion  at  which  I  arrived  without  the  aid 
of  logic  was  that  I  was  mad.  I  have  since  learned 
that 

"Ef  you  feel  like  bein'  blue, 

Better  laugh; 
Sighs  won't  bring  sunshine  to  you — 

Better  laugh. 

You  can't  conquer  fate  with  frowns 
In  a  fight  of  fifty  rounds : 
So  in  all  yer  ups  and  downs 
Better  thing  to  do,  by  half, 
Is  jest  to  laugh. 


46  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"When  you  think  uv  cussin',  don't ! 

Better  smile. 
When  skeeters  bite  and  fishes  won't, 

Better  smile. 

Ef  yer  hook  an'  line  get  stuck 
On  the  limb,  ur  some  bad  luck, 
Only  way  ter  show  yer  pluck, 
'Stead  uv  grumblin'  all  the  while, 
Is  jest  to  smile." 

It  never  occurred  to  me  before  that  my  treatment 
at  the  hands  of  Stoneman  was  other  than  just.  At 
that  particular  moment  it  was  unbearable.  I  might 
have  lain  there  in  the  bushes  till  now  had  not  the  sun 
burst  through  the  clouds,  mottled  the  wet  ground 
with  patches  of  silver,  and  trimmed  the  leaves  with 
crystal  beads.  Nevertheless,  it  was  not  very  "clear 
shining  after  rain." 

Stoneman  had  gone.  Followed  by  Shack,  with 
his  tail  between  his  legs,  I  journeyed  on  toward  the 
place  whence  I  had  come,  as  wet  as  wet  could  be, 
but  rapidly  drying  from  internal  heat.  I  had  worked 
two  years  for  him,  I  cogitated,  as  best  I  knew  how, 
and  had  never  lost  any  time  from  sickness,  play,  or 
visiting.  It  was  strange  to  me  now  that  I  could 
not  have  a  few  hours'  respite  from  toil  when  it 
rained  so  hard  as  to  render  work  on  the  farm  im 
possible  and  when  I  had  already  completed  what  I 
was  expected  to  do  under  shelter.  Please  remember, 
reader,  that  I  fished  no  more  in  the  clay  pit. 

That  night  my  heart  ached.  I  dried  my  clothing, 
sitting  behind  the  kitchen  stove.  I  thought  more 


I  Go  a-Fishing.  47 

mean  things  that  evening  than  I  had  in  all  my  pre 
vious  life,  Stoneman  being  at  one  end  of  a  bare 
cherry  table,  his  head  wreathed  in  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
and  his  wife  at  the  other  end  counting  the  money  he 
had  received  from  the  county.  The  amount  was 
little.  To  them  it  was  big;  to  me,  then,  inestimable. 
Going  to  their  bedroom,  Mrs.  Stoneman  brought 
out  an  old  stocking  which  received  the  precious  coin 
and  which  already  jingled  with  gold.  My  heart 
said :  "You  old,  stingy  misers,  here  you  have  lots  of 
money,  while  I  go  barefoot,  with  clothes  unfit  to  go 
to  a  stone  frolic  or  a  logging  bee.  You  make  me 
earn  three  times  what  I  cost,  and  then  don't  treat  me 
decently." 

In  my  anger  I  left  them  with  their  household 
gods  of  silver  and  gold.  If  ever  I  believed  in  a  just 
God  it  was  then.  He  seemed  to  console  me,  though 
I  cried  myself  to  sleep  with  a  strange  feeling  that 
time  only  is  necessary  to  right  all  wrongs  and  brush 
away  all  clouds.  Some  day  I  should  find  my  elder 
brother  whose  affection  and  love  would  more  than 
compensate  for  my  many  troubles. 

The  next  morning  a  small  bucket  of  water  and  a 
piece  of  dry  bread  sat  on  the  floor  of  my  room. 
Trying  to  open  the  door,  I  found  it  fastened.  The 
fact  dawned  upon  me  that  I  was  a  prisoner.  That 
was  the  longest  day  I  ever  lived,  except  the  next, 
which  was  a  glorious  Sunday  in  May.  Monday 
morning  brought  liberty.  The  only  consolation  I 
had  during  those  two  days  of  imprisonment  was  to 


48  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

see  Stoneman  after  the  cows,  feeding  the  pigs,  and 
toting  in  wood. 

Down  in  a  little  lot  by  the  house  a  calf  ran  at  will. 
The  chore  boy  for  those  two  days  knew  nothing 
about  its  peculiarities.  I  did,  and  watched  for  de 
velopments.  Bossy  habitually  drank  about  ten  swal 
lows  at  first  and  then  bunted  for  all  he  was  worth. 
This  maneuver,  if  not  closely  watched,  overturned 
the  pail  or  drove  the  milk  into  the  air  like  a  playing 
geyser.  The  mistress  had  fed  it  the  first  morning 
of  my  imprisonment.  Sunday  morning,  after  he 
had  done  all  the  chores,  got  on  his  clean  clothes, 
eaten  his  breakfast,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  settled 
down  to  real  comfort,  Mr.  Stoneman  came  out  of 
the  back  door  with  a  pail  of  milk  and  leisurely 
walked  down  toward  the  calf  lot.  The  innocent 
creature  stood  with  its  head  through  the  fence.  Now 
and  then  the  little  fellow  darted  his  head  and 
shoulders  forward  and  swayed  his  caudal  appendage. 
Imagine  how  I  felt  about  then ! 

The  quiet  man  placed  the  bucket  under  the  calf's 
nose  and  let  one  side  of  it  set  upon  his  toes.  He 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  top  board  of  the  fence, 
stooped  over  and  looked  down  upon  the  spotted  head 
beneath  him,  and  smoked  away  as  calmly  as  you 
please. 

Presto !  The  white  tip  at  the  extreme  of  the  little 
creature's  tail  lifted  to  a  level  with  its  back ;  at  the 
same  instant,  with  a  slight  tremor  of  the  body,  its 
nose  struck  on  the  same  horizontal.  A  column  of 


I  Go  a-Fishing.  49 

milk  shot  up  straight  into  the  burning  crater  of 
Stoneman.  Don't  tell  anybody,  but  he  was  a  sight. 
His  face  was  filled  with  fire,  ashes,  tobacco,  and 
milk,  the  mixture  trickling  down  through  his 
whiskers  in  rivulets,  onto  his  shirt,  and  dripping 
from  his  best  pantaloons  and  coat  sleeves  in  grayish 
streamlets.  Standing  for  a  moment,  facing  my  way 
in  a  half-stooping  posture,  arms  at  half  mast,  he  re 
minded  me  of  the  big  Shanghai  chicken  I  had  res 
cued  from  the  swill  barrel  the  week  before. 

Just  at  this  point  the  pent-up  volcanic  fires 
erupted.  He  seized  the  pail  by  the  bail,  jerked  it 
from  the  feasting  one.  The  head  of  the  calf  disap 
peared  through  the  fence  like  the  head  of  a  turtle 
into  its  shell.  It  scented  war.  Poising  the  pail 
above  his  head  for  a  good  aim,  his  majesty,  Mr. 
Stoneman,  turned  the  last  quart  of  bossy's  break 
fast  down  the  back  of  his  own  neck.  That  was  the 
last  straw.  The  bucket  hissed  through  the  air  and 
exploded  near  the  opposite  fence.  Solid  shot,  in  the 
form  of  stones,  followed  in  rapid  succession,  while 
the  enemy,  banner  in  air  and  flaunting  victory, 
capered  back  and  forth  and  up  and  down  the  lot  with 
an  occasional  bawl  of  calf  pleasure.  He  evidently 
enjoyed  the  exercise,  inasmuch  as  no  evil  came  near 
his  "blasted  hide,"  as  Stoneman  remarked  when  he 
withdrew  his  forces  and  beat  a  retreat  for  the  house. 
4 


50  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Wandering  Willie. 

"Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame ! 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie, 
And  tell  me  thou  bring' st  me  my  Willie  the  same." 

THE  years  passed.  My  lot  remained  the  same. 
Stoneman's  habits  were  not  in  accord  with 
my  notions.  He  made  Sunday  a  day  of 
lounging  and  occasional  visiting,  but  he  neither 
visited  nor  entertained  unless  there  was  a  little  busi 
ness  deal  somewhere  in  the  complication.  He  never 
worked  on  that  day,  simply  because  he  was  too  lazy, 
as  most  Sunday  visitors  are.  He  never  entered  the 
church  but  once  while  I  lived  with  him,  and  that  was 
when  old  Uncle  Tommy  Henway  died.  Uncle 
Tommy  was  the  hermit  bachelor  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  was  found  dead  one  day  in  his  apology  for 
a  bed.  The  poormaster  had  the  funeral  in  charge, 
and  Mr.  Stoneman  was  asked  to  be  "one  o'  the 
bearers."  He  accepted  the  honor  with  solemnity. 
It  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  him  really  "dressed 
up,"  except  when  he  brought  me  away  from  the  or 
phanage — two  historical  epochs  in  my  life.  He 
seemed  as  much  out  of  place  in  the  church  as  the 
corpse,  for  Uncle  Tommy  had  not  been  in  a  church 
before  in  fifty  years. 


Wandering  Willie.  51 

It  has  always  been  a  query  with  me  why  all  the 
Sunday  visitors,  loafers,  workers,  and  sports,  who 
seemingly  have  no  regard  for  church  services,  ex 
cept  ten-cent  suppers  and  free  entertainments,  want 
to  be  buried  from  the  church,  and  their  friends,  too, 
have  all  the  ministers  in  the  village  present  and  the 
best  choir  in  the  vicinity.  I  write  this  not  because 
Uncle  Tommy  was  a  pauper,  but  because  he  was  a 
godless  American  heathen.  If  the  church  was  of 
any  value  to  him  it  was  while  he  lived. 

Stoneman  sat  in  the  pew,  listened,  and  wiped  his 
eyes,  appearing  as  solemn  and  ridiculous  as  on  the 
day  he  saved  me  from  drowning  in  the  clay  pit.  The 
whole  scene  was  as  good  as  a  circus  to  me.  In  the 
procession  we  rode  in  solemn  state,  I  on  some  straw 
in  the  one-horse  spring  wagon,  he  and  Mrs.  Stone 
man  doing  the  part  of  the  aristocracy,  on  the  only 
seat  of  the  vehicle. 

After  the  services  at  the  cemetery  we  drove  to 
Rahway,  to  do  some  trading,  an  unheard-of  event 
for  the  Stonemans.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
was  on  the  streets  of  a  town  of  any  size,  and  over 
the  threshhold  of  an  up-to-date  store.  I  guess  I  was; 
green  as  grass,  for  constantly  the  boys  kept  me 
turning  and  gaping  for  something,  I  knew  not  what. 
On  our  way  home,  along  by  the  tracks  of  the  Penn 
sylvania  railway  for  two  miles,  I  feasted  my  eyes, 
vowing  that  as  soon  as  I  was  big  enough  a  railroader 
I  would  be. 

Thirteen  years  old.    I  did  as  much  work  as  any- 


52  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

one  at  the  Stoneman  homestead.  There  had  been 
little  to  break  the  monotony  until  after  our  visit  to 
Rahway.  A  new  pair  of  shoes,  the  tops  of  which 
connected  within  a  half  inch  of  the  lower  extremi 
ties  of  a  shop-worn  pair  of  pants,  a  new  hat  and 
coat  were  then  purchased  for  my  special  use.  The 
large  outlay,  three  dollars  and  seventy- four  cents, 
had  chaffed  the  commercial  heart  of  my  lord,  who 
endeavored  to  force  me  into  works  of  supereroga 
tion  in  payment  of  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owed  him. 
Complaint  there  was  none,  nevertheless  the  yoke 
galled.  Shack  was  poorer  than  ever,  and  I  had  be 
gun  to  share  my  food  with  him  again,  occasionally 
swiping  an  extra  from  the  table  into  my  pocket. 
Sitting  for  a  moment  one  day  behind  the  corn  house, 
just  after  dinner,  quietly  disgorging  my  pockets  and 
gorging  the  dog's  stomach,  to  the  surprise  of  all 
concerned  I  was  caught.  Slapping  me  side  of  the 
head  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  Stoneman  picked  up 
a  piece  of  bean  pole  that  chanced  to  be  near  and  laid 
it  over  the  back  of  my  only  friend.  With  a  howl  of 
pain  the  animal  made  for  the  kennel,  followed  by 
the  brute.  On  my  way  to  the  field,  rubbing  my  left 
ear,  I  heard  other  blows  from  the  cudgel.  The 
ear  did  not  hurt  half  as  much  as  my  heart.  I  felt 
myself  a  coward  to  run  when  a  friend  was  in  dan 
ger.  I  prayed  for  the  courage  of  Gideon. 

When  I  passed  the  kennel  at  chore  time  Shack  still 
remained  inside.  He  could  not  come  out.  At  bed 
time,  dark  as  pitch,  I  stooped  down  at  the  door  and 


Wandering  Willie.  S3 

reached  in.  The  poor  fellow  trembled  like  a  leaf. 
His  soft  tongue  feebly  licked  my  hand.  I  heard  the 
faint  pounding  of  his  tail  in  the  straw.  He  deserved 
a  supper  that  he  had  not  received.  I  determined  he 
should  have  it,  too,  even  if  a  battle  had  to  be  fought 
for  it.  My  spunk  was  daily  increasing.  Feeling 
around  in  the  darkness,  I  found  the  old  basin  used 
for  dipping  swill.  I  washed  it  in  the  brook,  stole 
over  the  fence  into  the  cow  pasture,  and  filled  it  with 
milk.  Shack  lapped  it  all  down  with  a  relish.  I 
patted  a  good-night  on  his  head  and  went  to  bed. 

During  the  night  I  was  awakened  by  the  rattle  of 
his  chain  and  a  dull  thumping  against  the  sides  of 
the  dog  house.  Hastening  down,  I  found  him  in 
agony,  apparently  in  convulsions.  The  old  moon 
had  just  risen,  so  that  I  was  able  to  see  quite  dis 
tinctly.  Speaking  to  the  dog  in  an  undertone,  he 
whined  faintly  and  bounded  out  upon  me,  but  fell 
faint  and  quivering.  He  rested  contentedly  with  his 
head  in  my  lap.  After  a  few  moments  of  silence  he 
began  to  shiver.  Then,  turning  his  cold  nose  up 
ward,  he  licked  me  gently  in  the  face,  shuddered, 
stiffened — and  all  was  over.  I  sat  on  the  ground 
for  an  hour  or  more  holding  the  head  of  my  dead 
friend  and  crying  like  a  booby.  It  might  have  been 
weakness,  but  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  I  was  alone 
then. 

Out  in  the  back  pasture  the  next  night  I  officiated 
at  a  solemn  funeral,  acting  as  chief  mourner,  grave- 
digger,  undertaker,  and  parson.  Beneath  a  graceful 


54  hOn  the  Mountain  Division. 

cedar  on  a  sandy  knoll  Shack  at  last  found  rest.  The 
moon  again  lighted  me  to  my  room  just  as  faint 
shafts  of  light  began  to  bespangle  the  east.  I  was 
more  dead  than  alive  the  next  day,  but  I  worked 
faithfully.  However,  I  drew  my  full  allowance  of 
rations,  a  part  of  which  went  into  my  stomach,  and 
the  dryer  portion  into  my  pocket,  for  I  was  too  sick 
at  heart  to  eat.  I  bade  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stoneman 
"good-night"  and  went  to  my  room.  I  dared  not 
drop  off  to  sleep  for  fear  of  not  waking  till  morning. 
After  nodding  and  dozing  about  an  hour  and  seeing 
that  the  light  in  the  house  was  extinguished,  I  stole 
down  the  stairway,  shoes  and  stockings  in  hand. 
Once  beyond  the  house  I  turned  into  the  road.  After 
a  few  minutes'  walk  I  stopped,  dressed  my  feet,  and 
trudged  on.  I  soon  left  the  Oak  Tree  schoolhouse 
behind  and  hastened  on  into  a  strange  land.  Home 
less,  friendless,  and  alone,  I  strode  on  in  the  night 
with  all  my  possessions  on  my  back,  except  the  dry 
bread,  gingerbread,  and  johnnycake  I  carried  in  my 
hand,  wrapped  in  a  Sunday  School  Advocate.  The 
streets  of  Plainfield  were  deserted  and  silent.  I  made 
not  a  halt,  but  kept  straight  on  up  the  mountain 
toward  Bernardsville. 

Stars  shone  through  a  warm  haze  when  I  set  out ; 
now  clouds  began  to  roll  up  in  the  west.  Lightning 
played  and  quivered  along  the  horizon.  It  was  inky 
blackness  all  around  me.  A  flash  of  lightning  re 
vealed  a  barn  standing  in  a  field  alone,  some  distance 
from  the  highway.  I  realized  that  I  was  fagged  out. 


Wandering  Willie.  55 

Loss  of  sleep,  sorrow,  overexertion,  and  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment  completely  exhausted  me.  Be 
tween  the  flashes  I  made  for  the  fence,  over  it  into 
the  field,  reached  the  shelter,  gained  an  entrance,  and 
found  a  comfortable  resting  place  on  some  new- 
mown  hay.  After  eating  a  part  of  my  lunch  by 
heaven's  electricity  and  amid  peals  of  thunder,  I  lay 
down  to  sleep.  My  reader,  do  you  know  the  soporific 
luxury  of  a  bed  in  new  hay  while  the  rain  patters  on 
the  roof?  Heaven's  artillery  could  not  awaken  the 
.Wandering  Willie  on  such  a  cot. 

When  I  did  awake  my  bones  ached  and  my 
stomach  gnawed.  Rising  and  becoming  cognizant 
of  myself,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  tell  whether 
it  was  morning  or  afternoon.  Sunrise  or  sunset,  I 
knew  not  which.  It  proved  to  be  the  latter.  In  five 
minutes  my  remaining  rations  were  eaten.  In  the 
twilight  I  crept  to  a  meadow  brook  close  by,  slaked 
my  thirst,  bathed  my  face,  got  my  bearings,  and  re 
turned  to  my  bed. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  dark  and  still.  Crawling 
from  my  comfortable  quarters  and  getting  into  the 
highway,  I  journeyed  on  toward  the  north.  At 
daybreak  another  friendly  hay  barn  appeared,  but 
not  the  luxurious  bed.  Yet  I  manufactured  a  fairly 
good  one  and  cuddled  up  for  the  day. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  my  eyes  opened.  Surely, 
thought  I,  I  must  be  a  tramp  now  anyway.  Hunger 
seized  me  in  earnest.  It  occurred  to  me  just  then 
that  my  commissary  supplies  were  cut  off,  and  that 


56  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

I  must  either  forage  or  die.  I  would  neither  starve 
nor  go  back  to  Jake  Stoneman's,  that  was  settled; 
beg  or  steal  was  out  of  the  question;  work  I  could 
and  would  if  an  opportunity  offered — yes,  I  would 
make  an  opportunity.  Thus  determined,  I  entered 
the  road  and  walked  straight  for  the  first  farmhouse. 
The  haymakers  were  just  out  from  dinner,  lounging 
and  joking  on  the  porch  and  under  the  trees.  There 
was  no  alternative;  I  must  have  food.  I  was 
ravenous.  The  men  sighted  me  while  yet  a  great 
way  off.  On  coming  nearer  such  remarks  as,  "What 
show  have  we  here  ?  Lost,  strayed,  or  stolen  ?  Let's 
have  some  fun  with  it!"  greeted  me. 

I  made  directly  for  them  and  immediately  said, 
"How  do  you  do?"  They  were  completely  bewild 
ered,  and  no  wonder.  I  was  a  pitiable  specimen  of 
the  turf.  My  hair  was  long,  pants  short,  and  coat 
shorter,  all,  more  or  less,  flecked  with  hayseed  and 
chaff.  Dust  covered  my  shoes,  spots  my  face,  and 
dirt  my  hands. 

"Is  the  gentleman  of  the  house  about  ?"  I  asked. 

"No!  He's  gone  to  Morristown  to-day,"  re 
spectfully  answered  one  of  the  men,  "but  his  wife  is 
inside." 

"Lookin'  fur  a  job?"  haughtily  asked  a  youth. 
"Goodwin  don't  hire  tramps." 

"Shet  up,  Tip !"  said  another.  " Y'  ought  tew  be 
civil  even  tew  a  dog,  much  more  tew  a  kid  like  him." 

"Yes,  I  want  a  job,"  said  I,  moving  toward  the 
door. 


Wandering  Willie.  57 

The  man  who  first  answered  me  called  Mrs.  Good 
win,  who  came  to  the  door  inquiring  what  was 
wanted. 

"Here's  a  chap  lookin'  fur  a  job  an'  wants  to  see 
the  gentleman  o'  the  house." 

The  woman  was  a  large,  good-natured  lady. 
Standing  in  the  door  she  looked  me  over  from  head 
to  foot,  partly  in  disgust,  partly  in  pity.  I  awaited 
my  first  sentence. 

"Looking  for  a  job!"  she  half  mused  to  herself. 
"Well,  I  never !  Where  did  you  come  from,  young 
ster  ?  Are  you  a  runaway  ?" 

She  settled  down  to  business,  and  her  eyes  read 
me  like  a  book.  I  hesitated,  stammered,  and  shifted 
my  body  onto  the  other  foot  and  my  hat  into  the 
other  hand.  The  unexpected  had  happened.  To  lie 
would  be  wrong.  To  tell  the  truth  might  send  me 
back  to  Stoneman.  To  Stoneman's  I  would  not  re 
turn,  and  I  never  dreamed  of  lying. 

"Come !  out  with  it !    Are  you  a  runaway  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  am,"  shifting  uneasily  to  my 
former  position. 

"From  home?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Haven't  you  any  home?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Haven't  you  ever  had  a  home?" 

"Not  much  of  a  one,  ma'am." 

"Haven't  you  any  parents?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  ma'am." 


58  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

At  this  the  men  burst  into  laughter,  but  Mrs. 
Goodwin  continued: 

"Where  had  you  been  staying  before  you  began 
tramping  ?" 

"Down  near  New  Dover." 

"Who  were  you  living  with?" 

"A  man  by  the  name  of  Stoneman." 

"What,  Jake  Stoneman,  that  squint-eyed  old  skin 
flint  down  there?  Are  you  that  boy  'at's  been  stayin' 
there  for  the  past  four  or  five  years?"  interrupted 
one  of  the  men  who  had  not  yet  spoken.  Jumping 
to  his  feet  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Goodwin,  he  con 
tinued  :  "If  he's  that  boy  he'll  never  go  back  to  New 
Dover  if  I  c'n  hender  it.  I  worked  near  there  las' 
summer  an'  know  all  about  this  Stoneman  an'  his 
meanness.  I  wouldn't  blame  the  boy  'f  'e'd  stole 
the  money  the  old  woman  keeps  tied  up  in  a  stockin'. 
I  for  one'll  stand  by  the  boy  an'  sock  my  fist  into 
old  Jake's  ribs  'f  'he  comes  snoopin'  up  round  here." 

Finishing  his  plea,  my  pettifogger  sat  down  again 
on  the  porch  and  chewed  at  his  toothpick  with  a 
vengeance. 

"Is  Lew  right  about  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Goodwin, 
pointing  toward  my  defendant. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"What's  your  name?" 

"William  Barson,  ma'am." 

"How  came  you  at  Stoneman's  ?" 

"He  took  me  from  an  orphanage  five  years  ago." 

"How  old  are  you?" 


Wandering  Willie.  59 

"Thirteen,  ma'am." 

Half  musing  she  went  on :  "Thirteen  ?  Why,  you 
look  older,  but  your  size  is  of  a  boy  much  younger. 
Want  a  job?  You  look  as  if  you  need  something 
to  eat  more  than  work.  Go  round  to  the  trough  at 
the  back  door,  wash  up,  come  into  the  house,  and 
we'll  see  if  we  can't  give  you  a  bite  to  stay  your; 
stomach." 

In  a  half  hour  I  came  out  of  the  front  door  a  new 
boy.  No  doubt  they  expected  me  to  move  on.  I 
had  no  such  intention.  I  immediately  volunteered 
to  "rake  after."  It  was  not  new  work.  No  one  said 
anything  when  Tip  began  "bunching  up"  and  I  took 
the  rake.  My  work  was  satisfactory.  When  Mr. 
Goodwin  arrived,  made  inquiries  into  my  case,  and 
watched  me  work  he  admitted  that  I  was  just  the 
boy  he  wanted  for  a  couple  of  months,  provided  I 
continued  as  well  as  I  had  begun. 

It  was  no  trick  at  all  to  suit  my  new  master.  He 
did  not  expect  a  lad  of  thirteen  to  do  the  work  of  a 
man.  The  time  flew  by  on  wings  of  pleasure. 

A  short  distance  beyond  my  new  home  lived  a 
boy  two  years  older  than  myself.  We  became  inti-* 
mate  friends.  My  desire  for  a  brother  grew  as  our 
friendship  ripened.  We  spent  the  Sabbaths  to 
gether.  He  attended  the  little  New  Vernon  chapel 
Sunday  school  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  went 
along. 

Two  months  passed  before  I  realized  it.  Septem 
ber  came,  and  with  it  a  request  from  Mr.  Goodwin 


60  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

that  he  would  like  me  to  remain  a  few  weeks  longer. 
I  remained.  During  those  weeks  I  spent  much  time 
on  the  truck  wagon,  holding  the  horses  and  driving 
them,  while  my  employer  huckstered  along  the 
streets  of  Morristown  from  house  to  house. 

The  middle  of  October  came.  Mr.  Goodwin  in 
formed  me  rather  coldly  that  my  services  were  no 
longer  needed.  There  had  been  some  crooked  work 
done  of  late,  and  circumstantial  evidence  pointed 
toward  me  as  the  guilty  perpetrator.  The  wages 
coming  to  me  were  twenty-five  dollars,  but  my  lord 
claimed  that  at  least  fifteen  dollars  had  been  taken 
from  his  till  little  by  little,  and  that  that  shortage 
must  be  deducted  from  the  twenty-five.  In  vain  did 
I  plead  my  innocence.  I  begged  him  to  search  me, 
my  room,  and  all  my  belongings.  He  would  not 
listen  to  me.  I  have  always  believed  Mr.  Goodwin 
sincere  in  his  decision  against  me.  He  was  shrewd, 
honest,  and  upright  to  the  last  degree,  but  having 
concluded  that  some  one  was  deceiving  him,  that 
person  was  dropped.  Perhaps  he  formed  opinions 
too  quickly  and  based  his  judgment  upon  too  slight 
evidence,  as  is  often  the  case  with  honest,  moral  men. 
He  never  would  think  of  giving  a  fellow  another 
chance.  One  fall,  or  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  fall, 
broke  off  communication. 

Nevertheless,  I  had  not  taken  the  money.  It  is 
true  that  he  had  trusted  me  with  quite  large  sums, 
and  often  allowed  me  to  pay  small  bills  and  to  take 
receipts  for  the  same.  The  place  of  the  money 


Wandering  Willie.  61 

drawer  I  knew  perfectly,  having  often  been  sent 
there  for  change. 

Tip  had  more  money  than  usual.  Cigars  and 
candy  were  common  luxuries  with  him.  Where  his 
spending  money  came  from  was  a  guess  to  me,  but 
if  I  could  only  have  the  chance  of  a  few  days  I  was 
sure  I  could  ferret  out  the  source.  The  opportunity 
was  not  granted,  and  I  knew  better  than  to  accuse 
anyone  of  a  crime  without  sufficient  evidence  to  con 
vict.  There  remained  but  one  thing  to  do— go.  The 
Goodwin  home  closed  to  me  forever.  My  labor 
satisfied.  Wages  cheerfully  paid  so  far.  I  had  been 
picked  up  from  tramping,  and  given  a  good  home 
and  decent  treatment,  all  of  which  I  appreciated. 
They  took  me  into  their  confidence  and  trust  and, 
according  to  their  opinion,  I  had  betrayed  both. 
Now  I  must  take  my  ten  dollars  and  go — and  go 
forever. 

In  vain  did  I  lay  my  claim  before  Mr.  Goodwin. 
Would  he  only  let  me  stay  till  I  proved  myself  hon 
est,  and  until  my  wages  would  repay  the  lost  money  ? 
I  wanted  to  leave  him  the  ten  dollars  rather  than 
depart  with  a  stain  on  my  reputation. 

I  wept  and  begged  and  went.  The  servant  girl 
said  I  was  innocent.  Tip  whistled  and  remarked 
that  it  was  good  enough  for  me.  Mrs.  Goodwin  used 
her  apron  about  her  eyes  and  nose,  as  if  she  had 
taken  an  overdose  of  snuff,  while  her  husband  gritted 
his  teeth.  He  was  "sot  in  his  way." 

I  slept  with  Ned  that  night  and  poured  out  my 


62  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

troubles  to  him.  He,  too,  believed  me  innocent. 
Then  I  cried  and  blurted  out  that  "there's  no  use 
trying  to  be  good."  I  talked  of  my  elder  brother, 
"and,  Ned,"  said  I,  "I  have  a  brother,  too,  and  some, 
day  I'll  find  him." 

I  planned  to  write  to  Ned  when  I  settled  in  a  new 
place,  and  he  would  report  to  me  the  outcome  of  the 
burglary  at  Goodwin's.  The  next  morning,  with  a 
little  bundle  under  my  arm,  I  set  my  face  toward 
the  north  for  a  second  time.  This  time  my  heart 
was  heavier  than  before,  for  I  went  under  criminal 
accusation. 

Trudging  along  the  road  that  morning,  Mr. 
Goodwin  and  Tip  passed  me,  the  former  paying  no 
attention  to  me,  while  the  latter  shouted,  ".Wander 
ing  Willie,  again!  " 

"I  ain't  got  no  reg'lar  place  that  I  can  call  my  home, 
I  don't  get  no  fond  embrace  as  o'er  this  world  I  roam ; 
Portland,  Maine,  is  just  the  same  as  sunny  Tennessee, 
For  any  old  place  I  hang  my  hat  is  'Home,  sweet  home,'  to 
me." 


The  Summer-field  Home.  63 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Summerfield  Home. 

"Loud  though  the  winter  blew  cauld  at  our  parting, 
'Twas  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  to  my  e'e: 

Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me." 

"  T  ANE,  I  wish  you'd  bathe  my  foot  with  that  lini 
ment  again.  I  guess  this  rheumatism'll  kill 
J  me."  So  spoke  Joseph  Horton  to  his  wife  while 
he  sat  in  a  comfortable  rocker,  a  pillow  at  his 
head,  and  his  right  foot  well  bandaged,  resting  on  a 
chair.  The  room  represented  the  coziness  of  a  well- 
to-do  farmer.  Several  straight-backed,  splint  chairs, 
three  wooden  rockers  covered  with  double-quilted 
calico,  a  large  lounge,  and  a  table  constituted  the 
furniture,  which  was  arranged  about  a  sheet-iron 
stove.  A  striped  rag  carpet  mantled  the  floor,  and 
in  one  corner  a  high,  wooden  clock  reached  from 
carpet  to  ceiling.  The  ceiling  consisted  of  wide  pine 
boards  painted  red.  A  pan  partially  filled  with  late 
pippins  and  parings  sat  on  the  hassock  near  the  fire. 
Annie,  a  girl  of  twelve,  the  only  child — for  Frankie, 
a  brother  two  years  her  senior,  had  been  sleeping  in 
the  cemetery  but  three  months — and  Aunt  Phoebe,  a 
maiden  sister  of  Mrs.  Horton,  constituted  the  re 
mainder  of  the  family.  The  odor  from  the  room 


64  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

smelled  strongly  of  boneset,  vinegar,  liniment,  and 
slowly  sizzling  apples.  The  illumination  came  from 
a  hanging  lamp  over  the  table,  the  glow  from  the 
roaring  fire  and  Annie's  radiant  face. 

"I  miss  Frankie  so  much  these  days,"  continued 
the  patient,  as  his  wife  sat  down  and  began  bathing 
the  painful  member.  "It  was  all  I  could  do  to  finish 
the  chores  to-night.  It'll  be  quite  some  time  'fore 
I  can  get  round  well  again,  and  I  do  wish  I  had  a 
chore  boy.  We've  always  worked  h^rd,  Jane.  Now 
we're  gettin'  old,  and  I'm  rheumatic.  But  we've  a 
little  ahead  and  can't  complain — Och ! — E-e-e !  Rub 
a  leetle  careful  there — that  stuff  takes  right  holt. 
iYes,  as  I  was  goin'  to  say,  if  we  only  had  Frankie 
now  our  family  circle  would  be  complete  and  our 
cup  of  blessin'  full.  God  has  been  good  to  us  just 
the  same,  Jane,  and  I'm  not  the  one  to  find  fault." 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  company  as  the  conversation 
ceased.  Mrs.  Horton  continued  rubbing  the  foot, 
while  her  husband  sat  back  in  the  chair  with  his  eyes 
closed.  To  a  careful  observer  several  tears  chased 
leach  other  at  intervals  down  his  wrinkling  cheeks, 
while  the  good  wife  drew  her  sleeve  across  her  eyes, 
as  if  the  pungent  odor  of  the  liniment  affected  them. 
'Both  their  minds  dwelt  on  the  little  mound  up  the 
hill,  that  was  now  receiving  its  first  snow  covering. 
The  storm  had  begun  in  the  early  afternoon  when 
the  air  was  damp  and  biting.  First  came  a  fine  ice- 
'dust  which,  as  the  temperature  rose,  turned  to  large, 
'fleecy  snowflakes.  The  wind  rose  and  howled 


The  Summer-field  Home.  65 

around  the  buildings  and  roared  through  the  moun 
tain  forests.  Darkness  shut  in  with  a  blustering, 
blinding  storm* 

"What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
What  matter  how  the  north  wind  raved? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth  fire's  ruddy  glow;" 

"That  was  a  good  story,  Aunt  Phoebe,0  Said 
Annie,  with  a  long  breath,  rising  from  her  cozy 
corner  where  she  had  listened  to  one  of  auntie's 
favorite  tales.  "Good-night !" 

She  stood  hesitating  by  her  father's  side.  Placing 
an  arm  around  his  neck  and  leaning  against  him  lov 
ingly,  she  remarked  with  a  yawn,  "I'm  sleepy,  papa, 
but  the  wind  blows  so  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed. 
O,  dear!"  as  a  violent  blast  struck  the  dwelling, 
"how  the  house  shakes  at  every  gust!  Hark!  was 
that  some  one  knocking?  Who  can  be  out  such  a 
night  as  this?  Shall  I  open  the  door?" 

"Yes,  dear,  and  be  spry  about  it,  for  whoever  it 
is  'e'll  perish  if  'e  don't  get  under  shelter  soon." 

Annie  seized  the  latch  and  opened  the  door.  A 
gust  of  wind  freighted  with  snow  rushed  into  the 
room,  half  extinguishing  the  light  and  hissing 
against  the  hot  stove.  Nothing  could  be  seen. 
Annie  cheerily  shouted,  "Come  in,  quick,  or  we'll  all 
be  snowed  under!" 

An  object  entered,  and  the  door  closed.  When 
the  flurry  had  subsided  a  small  boy,  shivering,  be- 


66  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

wildered,  blue  with  the  cold,  and  covered  with  snow, 
stood  inside  the  door.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence,  while  every  eye  was  fastened  on  the  lad. 

"Come  up  by  the  fire,  my  boy !"  said  Mrs.  Horton, 
who  pushed  a  chair  in  the  direction  indicated. 

The  youth  sat  down  shivering  and  speechless.  The 
red-hot  stove  drove  the  snow  out  of  sight,  while  the 
water  gathered  in  little  pools  on  the  oilcloth.  The 
good  woman  took  one  of  the  little  hands  in  hers.  It 
was  cold  as  ice.  Lifting  his  cap,  the  ears  showed 
white  rings  on  the  outer  cartilage.  "Get  a  basin  of 
cold  water,  Annie,  quick,  for  the  poor  fellow  is  nearly 
frozen." 

They  removed  him  to  the  couch,  away  from  the 
heat  of  the  stove,  and,  taking  off  his  leather  boots, 
bathed  his  feet  and  hands  with  cold  water.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  chill  had  passed  from  them  and 
they  were  removed  from  the  cold  bath  and  rubbed 
briskly  with  a  rough  towel.  They  gave  him  a  drink 
of  hot  ginger  tea  and  again  brought  him  to  the  fire 
side.  While  the  little  fellow  sat  silently  looking  into 
the  bright  coals  several  tear  drops  coursed  down  his 
face.  They  did  not  fall  unnoticed.  Friendship 
germinated,  grew,  and  bore  fruit  at  once.  Not  a 
word  had  yet  passed  between  the  hospitable  hosts 
and  the  strange  little  guest.  The  silence  was  golden. 

Mr.  Horton  was  the  first  to  speak:  "Well,  my 
boy,  you  were  purty  near  froze,  did  you  know  it? 
Guess  you've  had  a  purty  tough  time  of  it,  haven't 
you?" 


The  Summerfield  Home.  67 

"Yes,  sir!"  came  faintly  and  with  a  shudder. 

"Have  you  come  far  to-day?" 

"I  don't  know" — another  shiver — "how  far,  sir." 

"Where  is  your  home,  my  lad?" 

"I  haven't  any — home,  sir.  I'm  not  a  tramp— 
nor  a  beggar  neither.  I  only  want  a  place  where  I 
can  earn  my  way,  but  no  one  seems  to — to — want 
me  around.  I  worked  for  Mr.  Goodwin  down  at 
New  Vernon,  and  he  liked  my  work  well  enough, 
he  said,  but  finally — sent  me  away  twitting  me  of 
stealing — but,  sir,  I  didn't.  Since  then  I've  tried  to 
find  work,  but  I  can't — I've  spent  all  my  money.  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  an  elder  brother  somewhere,  yet  I  don't  know. 
I  never  saw  my  parents — Oo-oo-oo!"  as  a  chill 
passed  over  him  making  his  teeth  chatter.  "If  I 
could  only  find  my  brother,  or  a  friend  even,  I  would 
be  all  right." 

By  this  time  I  had  friends  around  the  Horton 
hearthstone.  I  have  had  severe  exposure  to  the  ele 
ments  since  that  night,  but  never  came  so  near  giving 
up  in  my  life.  I  prayed  for  deliverance.  It  came 
through  the  blinding  gale  and  drifting  snow  in  the 
form  of  a  light  in  the  window.  Providence  had 
favored  me.  I  must  have  a  mission  on  earth  or  the 
Lord  would  have  then  let  me  freeze  to  death.  You 
may  have  sometime  felt  that  there  was  no  place  in 
the  world  for  you  except  in  the  potter's  field.  If 
you  have  never  realized  that  condition  you  are  to  be 
pitied.  Just  at  the  point  of  despair  the  good  Father 


68  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

of  us  all  flings  open  the  gate  leading  into  a  state  of 
consciousness  and  knowledge  of  world-ownership 
and  all  heaven,  besides.  "All  mine  are  thine,  and 
thine  are  mine." 

It  need  not  be  mentioned  that  I  had  found  a  home. 
They  informed  me  that  they  were  sorely  in  need  of 
a  chore  boy,  but  that  I  was  too  small.  When  they 
knew  my  real  age  and  allowed  me  to  try  my  hand 
at  work  the  bargain  was  closed.  Mr.  Horton's  rheu 
matism  increased  until  he  was  unable  to  get  out  of 
doors.  All  the  chores  fell  on  me.  But  what  of  it  as 
long  as  such  a  fireside  blazed  for  me,  and  such  com 
pany  as  was  there  included  me  also.  Books  and  pa 
pers  lay  before  me.  My  food  was  sumptuous.  In 
the  nightime  I  rolled  in  fluffy  feathers. 

By  holiday  time  Mr.  Horton  recovered  sufficiently 
to  be  around  again,  and  I  was  permitted  to  go  to 
school.  What  school  days !  Were  you,  my  reader, 
ever  at  Summerfield,  New  Jersey,  away  up  on  the 
mountains?  To  the  northwest  is  Mount  Minsi,  on 
the  west  side  of  the  Delaware  Water  Gap,  while  on 
the  east — the  Jersey  side — the  mountains  stretch 
away  to  the  horizon  with  a  summit  as  level  as  the 
ocean.  These  for  the  background;  the  meander 
ing  Delaware,  patches  of  woodland  and  farms  at 
our  feet,  the  foreground,  became  the  everyday 
picture  that  gratified  Annie  and  me  as  we  went 
to  and  from  school.  And  such  dinners  as  we 
carried  in  our  basket,  and  the  pleasure  of  eating 
them!  I  can  taste  them  yet.  My  chief  joy,  how- 


The  Summer-field  Home.  69 

ever,  was  breaking  roads  through  the  snow  for  my 
schoolmate. 

I  had  gained  parents,  sister,  and  a  dear  old  auntie. 
Brother's  place  in  my  heart  was  yet  vacant.  My  con 
dition  would  not  have  been  so  happy  had  not  their 
misfortune  left  an  aching  void,  to  be  filled  in  part 
by  me.  Why  Frankie  was  taken  and  Willie  left 
remains  a  question  to  be  answered  in  the  here^ 
after.  The  wisest  of  us  stand  as  children  before 
our  heavenly  Father. 

After  everything  in  the  barn,  kitchen,  woodhouse, 
and  cellar  was  done  for  the  night  we  gathered  in  the 
sitting  room  to  spend  the  evening.  The  apple  pan 
sat  among  us  as  a  permanent  entertainer.  Uncle 
Joe — all  the  neighbors  called  Mr.  Horton  by  that 
name,  and  his  good  wife,  Aunt  Jane — spent  most 
of  his  time  reading;  Aunt  Jane,  knitting  or  mend 
ing;  Aunt  Phcebe,  knitting  or  telling  stories;  and 
Annie  and  I,  listening  or  playing  dominoes  or  fox 
and  geese.  Sometimes  we  were  elfish  and  tormented 
Aunt  Phoebe.  She  had  the  fashion  of  knitting  and 
nodding,  the  needles,  as  if  adhering  together,  going 
slower  and  slower,  down  to  the  sticking  point,  while 
her  body  went  over  and  over  until  her  head  dropped, 
awakening  the  sleeper  with  a  start  and  setting  the 
whole  knitting  machinery  in  motion  faster  than  ever. 
We  used  to  tickle  her  nose  with  a  straw,  occasionally 
of  course,  just  before  the  nod.  When  she  jumped, 
we  shouted,  "There,  Aunt  Phcebe,  we  caught  you 
napping  that  time!" 


70  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"No,  you  didn't !"  she  asseverated  every  time.  "I 
ain't  as  near  asleep  as  you  think  I  be."  But  she  was 
asleep,  yet  one  of  the  best  old  souls  that  ever  lived. 
However,  I  have  seen  folks  who  were  eternally 
asleep  before  they  were  twenty  years  of  age.  They 
would  talk  in  their  sleep  and  yet  declare  their  wake- 
fulness.  They  could  not  always  be  wakened,  either, 
by  the  jab  of  a  bodkin.  It  is  so  strange  how  some  of 
us  sleep,  and  even  die,  and  yet  escape  burial  for  half 
a  century.  Aunt  Phoebe  never  slept  except  physic 
ally.  Mentally  and  spiritually,  she  was  wide-awake 
and  very  much  alive. 

This  dear  old  dame  spent  most  of  her  life  at 
Dingman,  on  the  Delaware,  between  Port  Jervis  and 
the  Water  Gap,  and  was  steeped  in  Indian  lore.  The 
air  along  that  portion  of  the  noble  river  has  never 
yet  been  disturbed  by  a  steamboat  whistle  or  the 
puffing  locomotive,  and  still  has  the  flavor  of  tradi 
tion.  The  sluggish  stream,  many  islands,  the  tall 
cliffs,  and  sandy  flats,  must  have  been  the  ideal  fish 
ing  waters,  hunting  grounds,  and  home  of  the  noble 
red  man.  Where  the  lithe  warrior  paddled  his  canoe 
among  the  rushes,  there  the  nimble  limbs  of  the  deer 
bathed  and  its  graceful  neck  stooped  to  drink. 
Where  the  Meadow  King  now  drops  the  timothy 
and  clover,  the  squaw  once  hoed  the  maize  and 
pounded  the  grain  with  a  stone  pestle  and  mortar  of 
her  own  make.  Here,  too,  the  boys  raced,  threw  the 
tomahawk,  shot  their  flint-headed  arrows,  and 
bathed  and  fished  in  the  limpid  water.  Where  are 


The  Summerfield  Home.  '  71 

now  the  lover's  nook  and  tryst,  there  the  Indian 
hunter  once  wooed  his  dusky  mate  and  led  her 
thence  to  his  lonely  wigwam. 

With  bated  breath  we  listened  to  the  tale  of  the 
battle  at  Death  Eddy.  The  Indians  overpowered  the 
whites,  drove  them  from  the  settlement  over  the 
bluff,  down  the  mountain,  and  into  the  river,  and 
massacred  men,  women,  and  children  under  the 
tomahawk  until  the  stream  ran  red  with  blood.  We 
could  almost  imagine  the  whistle  of  the  wind  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  to  be  the  moaning  of  the  vic 
tims  under  the  gleam  of  the  scalping  knife.  Since 
those  days  I  have  visited  the  scenes  of  the  story, 
and  from  far  up  in  the  forest  nearly  to  the  top  of  the 
mountain  floated  down  to,  and  over,  the  river  the 
sweet,  plaintive  notes  of  the  mourning  dove.  The 
Indian  war  whoop  has  long  since  died  away  in  its 
last  echo,  but  the  minor  strain  continues  from  the 
throat  of  a  dove  of  peace. 

The  story  of  the  fray  at  Minisink  thrilled  us. 
There  scores  of  warriors,  white  and  red,  fought  for 
mastery  and  possession  of  the  soil.  There,  too, 
scores  returned  to  the  dust  whence  they  came;  the 
white  man's  soul  to  the  judgment,  "to  render  an  ac 
count  of  the  deeds  done  in  the  body,"  and  the  red 
man's  soul  to  its  happy  hunting  ground.  May  the 
just  Father  of  us  all  judge  between  them. 

Many  were  the  legends  and  yarns  that  clustered 
around  the  life  of  Tom  Quick,  the  greatest  Indian 
hunter  of  his  time.  Returning  one  evening  to  his 


72  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

cabin,  he  found  it  in  ashes  and  his  parents,  brothers, 
and  sisters,  lying  in  their  blood,  while  their  scalps 
dangled  from  the  belts  of  the  bloodthirsty  braves. 
There  in  the  dusk,  with  his  family  dead  about  him, 
he  looked  up  to  the  evening  stars  and  vowed  before 
God  to  avenge  their  butchery  before  he  died  by  slay 
ing  one  hundred  Indians.  He  slew  ninety-nine,  so 
the  story  goes,  and  died  regretting  that  but  one  had 
escaped.  Will  you  blame  him  who  had  the  privilege 
of  reading,  "Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay,  saith 
the  Lord"  ?  Can  you  blame  the  Indian  who  had  not 
that  opportunity  and  lived  consistently  as  he  read 
the  word  of  his  God  from  Nature's  book? 

Rafting  on  the  Delaware  was  perfectly  familiar 
to  our  story-teller.  There  was  little  rafting  between 
"Port  an'  the  Gap,"  but  raftsmen  from  up  river  often 
landed  at  Dingman  for  the  night — the  eddy  being 
frequently  filled  with  rafts  and  the  farmhouses  with 
rugged,  healthy  lumbermen,  who,  too  often,  inclined 
toward  drinking  and  boisterous  carousing.  Their 
jollity  was  not  so  apparent  until  they  had  passed 
"through  the  Gap;"  then  their  lower  nature  was  let 
loose,  and  appetite  and  passion  ran  wild,  for  above 
Port  Jervis  they  must  be  cool  and  sober.  Here  the 
river  flows  in  a  narrow  channel,  frequently  thrown 
into  a  tumult  of  rapids,  such  as  at  Cochecton  and 
Mongaup  falls,  Lackawaxen  dam,*  Big  and  Little 
Cedar,  and  at  Butler's  and  Sawmill  rifts.  Below 

*  The  dam  has  been  removed  since  the  Delaware  and  Hudson  Canal  was 
abandoned. 


The  Summer-field  Home.  73 

the  Port  the  river  widens,  flows  quietly,  and  for 
hours  at  a  time  only  the  light  "paddlin'  o'  the  hind 
hands"  and  the  close  watch  of  the  steersman  are 
necessary.  At  night  the  raftsmen  had  everything 
their  own  way.  When  "layin'  over"  for  high  or 
low  water  or  high  wind  they  sometimes  ate  and 
drank  everything  in  sight,  occasionally  resorting  to 
the  destruction  of  property.  Many  hard-contested 
battles  they  had  with  the  canalers.  Fists  were  al 
ways  used.  Often  the  canalers  brought  into  play 
loaded  whips  and  clubs.  If  the  lumbermen  were 
likely  to  be  worsted  they  used  their  crank  augurs 
and  sometimes  axes. 

Many  were  the  stories  told  us  of  the  Lords,  the 
Coles,  the  Geers,  and  the  Lakins  of  the  Upper  Dela 
ware,  among  whom  were  excellent  steersmen  and 
powerful  men,  while  on  the  lower  waters  were  such 
men  as  "Old  Joe  Coogler,"  who  could  "run  a  raft 
from  Black's  to  Trenton  without  dippin'  a  far'd  oar." 
Summerfield  was  not  very  far  from  the  Delaware. 
Often  Annie  and  I  walked  to  the  brow  of  the  moun 
tain  and  looked  down  upon  the  serpentine  waters 
pounding  along  over  the  bars  and  rifts  and  smoothly 
lapping  along  through  the  rush-fringed  eddies.  Dur 
ing  a  "fresh"  we  frequently  saw  rafts  floating  lazily 
down  the  stream,  all  of  which  increased  the  vivid 
ness  of  the  oft-repeated  stories  of  Aunt  Phoebe. 

But  the  smoky  trail  of  the  locomotive  and  the 
snakelike  train  following  attracted  my  attention 
more.  It  would  not  be  many  years,  I  then  thought, 


74  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

before  I  would  join  the  great  army  of  railroaders. 
My  plans  were  made,  for  nothing  but  a  "life  on  the 
rail"  would  for  me  produce  contentment.  Those 
were  the  halcyon  days  of  my  boyhood;  the  silvery 
and  gold-embroidered  rifts  in  the  clouds,  letting 
through  the  genial  sunlight  of  the  time  when  I 
should  be  a  man. 


Springtime. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Springtime* 

"At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 

Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair, 

Chased  to  the  margins  of  receding  floods, 

O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds, 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 

And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May." 

YES,  May  had  come.  My  heart  could  contain 
no  more  happiness  without  enlargement. 
The  peach  orchards  were  great,  pink  sun- 
bonnets  bent  over  the  sandy  hilltops.  The  green 
patches  of  winter  grain  gave  a  touch  of  beauty  to 
the  mountain  sides,  fringing  the  woodland  or  the 
fields  that  had  been  plowed  for  later  grain.  The  first 
warm,  blue  haze  of  early  spring  had  cleared  from 
the  atmosphere.  In  its  stead  came  the  dry,  bright 
air,  floating  on  the  west  wind  and  freighted  with  the 
fragrance  of  May. 

The  spring  work  was  well  along,  and  Uncle  Joe 
became  anxious  to  know  more  about  me.  His 
natural  disposition  led  him  to  seek  information  con 
cerning  my  former  character.  He  was  a  cautious 
man,  shrewd,  intelligent,  and  fair  in  judgment.  My 
work  and  conduct  pleased  him,  yet  he  was  too  wary 
to  allow  me  to  lay  a  trap  for  him.  All  this  he  kept 
to  himself  and  pondered  it  in  his  heart. 


76  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

O,  how  it  rained !  Some  fences  had  to  be  repaired 
along  the  pasture  next  to  a  clump  of  second-growth 
timber.  Patches  of  bushes,  here  and  there,  kept  me 
wet  to  the  skin  all  the  time  I  was  working.  At  five 
in  the  afternoon  the  job  was  done.  When  I  entered 
the  kitchen,  my  clothes  dripping,  Annie  handed  me 
a  letter.  It  was  from  Ned  Thraner.  Surely  this 
brings  good  news !  Opening  the  missive,  my  heart 
bounded  with  joy  as  I  read  that  Mr.  Goodwin  had 
found  the  thief,  and  he  knew  me  to  be  innocent. 
Still  I  felt  sad  to  learn  that  Tip  now  lay  in  jail 
awaiting  trial  for  stealing. 

Taking  the  letter  to  Uncle  Joe,  who  sat  in  the  sit 
ting  room  reading  his  paper,  I  exclaimed,  ''Here's  a 
letter  that  will  show  you  that  I  have  told  you  the 
truth  about  Mr.  Goodwin  and  his  accusation  against 
me." 

"That's  all  right,  Willie,"  he  coolly  replied,  push 
ing  my  letter  back  to  me  and  laying  his  hand  over 
another  one  on  the  table,  "here's  one  from  Mr.  Good 
win  himself  which  tells  the  whole  story,  and  a  check 
for  fifteen  dollars  to  boot,"  handing  me  the  paper. 
"You're  an  honest  boy  and  may  stay  here  's  long  's 
you  like.  Better  go  now  and  find  the  sheep  and  see 
there's  no  lambs  in  trouble.  'T  rains  hard  enough 
to  drown  a  sheep." 

He  turned  to  his  reading,  and  I  plunged  into 
the  rain  again  as  light  as  a  feather,  although  the 
water  slushed  and  gurgled  in  my  boots  at  every 
step. 


Springtime.  77 

A  home  and  friends,  an  honest  boy, 
Enough  to  fill  my  soul  with  joy ! 

The  summer  passed  like  a  continual  picnic.  Of 
course  I  worked,  for  there  is  no  pleasure  in  idleness. 
When  one's  heart  is  in  the  task,  fatigue  vanishes, 
time  flies,  and  life  pleases.  The  very  air  breathes 
freedom. 

I  was  alone  much  of  the  time;  not  lonesome,  but 
in  periods  of  meditation.  More  and  more  the  con 
viction  that  I  had  an  elder  brother  grew  upon  me. 
Sometime  and  somewhere,  I  was  confident,  we  would 
have  a  happy  union  or  reunion,  I  knew  not  which. 

Summerfield  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  had 
been  supplied  for  years  by  students  from  Drew  Theo 
logical  Seminary.  Occasionally  the  pastor  brought 
along  a  fellow-student  or  classmate  to  preach  for 
him  and  share  with  him  the  bounteous  board  of  the 
mountain  farmers.  It  was  a  rare  treat  for  "the  boys 
from  Drew;"  to  dine  with  the  farmer  girls — and 
there  are  none  better — to  chat  round  a  home  fire 
side,  and  to  sleep  in  a  downy  bed  were  sharp  con 
trasts  to  the  monkish  life  at  the  seminary. 

Harry  Blessner  preached  for  us.  Just  before  holi 
days  he  began  revival  meetings,  to  continue  through 
vacation  at  least.  A  week  passed.  Every  night 
found  me  at  the  church  with  Annie,  Uncle  Joe,  and 
usually  Aunt  Jane.  Family  prayers  became  more 
personal  and  genial,  though  Mr.  Horton  always 
prayed  for  results  and  from  the  heart.  Never  hav 
ing  opportunities  of  Bible  study  or  Christian  train- 


7$  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

ing,  the  home  that  opened  to  me  was  a  revelation  as 
well  as  a  benediction.  The  teaching  in  the  orphanage 
had  done  wonders  for  my  habits.  At  Stoneman's 
there  was  no  opportunity  to  use  tobacco  or  intoxi 
cants.  Even  if  there  had  been,  the  nicotine  that 
coated  Stoneman's  mouth,  smoked  his  visage,  and 
scented  his  clothing  was  sufficient  to  disgust  any 
ordinary  person.  By  the  way,  tobacco  is  like  a  snail 
anyway,  "slow  but  sure,"  leaving  a  slimy  trail. 

Well,  at  the  opening  of  the  revival  I  was  moral 
in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word — perhaps  as  good 
as  I  ever  have  been  since,  although  I  was  neither 
saved  by  grace  nor  useful  to  the  church.  One  even 
ing  the  Gospel  in  John  third  chapter  and  sixteenth 
verse  was  preached  by  a  classmate  of  Blessner.  The 
fountain  of  my  soul  then  began  to  play.  What  a 
sprinkling  of  conviction  I  received !  The  next  night 
the  witness  of  the  Spirit  came  from  the  eighth  of 
Romans.  The  good  brother  dwelt  long  on  Father, 
sons,  and  Jesus  our  elder  brother.  I  am  no  theolo 
gian  or  homilist,  and  till  then  I  thought  I  was  no 
great  sinner,  but  the  truth  came  home  to  me  like  a 
vision  from  heaven.  When  the  invitation  to  the 
altar  came  I  was  too  weak  to  stand.  Men  and 
women  wept  on  account  of  their  sins.  I  wept 
with  them. 

"Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy,"  just  touched 
my  case.  A  hand  lay  on  my  shoulder  as  the  kind 
voice  of  my  pasfcor  said,  "Come,  Willie,  now  is 
your  time," 


Springtime.  79 

The  way  from  the  pew  to  the  altar  was  long  and 
the  burden  heavy.  When  I  dropped  at  the  railing 
there  seemed  never  such  a  case  of  fallen  humanity 
and  total  depravity  in  all  the  world.  That  posi 
tion  and  its  consciousness,  together  with  a  vow  and 
faith  to  do  better,  proved  to  be  very  near  glory 
for  me. 

The  sermon  had  cut  me  all  to  pieces.  "O,  Father, 
help !"  I  cried,  but  I  had  known  no  father,  and  could 
not  get  light.  Sonship  had  no  more  effect.  I  longed 
for  an  elder  brother.  Here  I  held  fast.  "Jesus,  my 
elder  brother,"  I  groaned. 

My  eyes  opened.  The  dimly  lighted  room  was 
mellowed  by  celestial  brightness.  The  faces  in  the 
audience  shone.  My  tears  dried.  My  burden  was 
gone;  my  sorrow  gone;  homesickness  gone;  self 
gone.  A  new  boy  with  an  elder  brother  stood  in 
my  stead.  The  clothing,  spotted  face,  and  diminu 
tive  body  were  identical  with  myself,  yet  self  was 
gone.  Nevertheless  I  lived,  yet  not  I,  but  Christ 
lived  in  me;  "and  the  life  which  I  now  live  in  the 
flesh  I  live  by  the  faith  df  the  Son  of  God,  who 
loved  me  and  gave  himself  for  me." 

The  congregation  were  singing  "Praise  God, 
from  whom  all  blessings  flow."  I  arose  and  lustily 
joined  with  them.  The  quiet  moment  of  benediction 
calmed  my  soul  and  nestled  it  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Almighty.  I  went  into  the  church  that  evening  an 
orphan  and  came  out  a  son ;  I  went  in  a  beggar  and 
came  out  an  heir. 


80  On  the  Mountain  Division* 

"O  happy  are  they, 

Who  the  Saviour  obey, 
And  have  laid  up  their  treasure  above! 

Tongue  can  never  express 

The  sweet  comfort  and  peace 
Of  a  soul  in  its  earliest  love. 

"That  sweet  comfort  was  mine. 

When  the  favor  divine 
I  received  through  the  blood  of  the  Lamb; 

When  my  heart  first  believed, 

What  a  joy  I  received, 
What  a  heaven  in  Jesus's  name !" 


The  Fever.  81 


CHAPTER  X. 
The  Fever. 

YOU  know  how  silly  and  sentimentally  a  boy 
acts  when  he  begins  the  ascent  of  the  hill 
so  famous  in  legend  and  practice.  We  all 
climb  it.  Most  of  us  reach  the  summit  at  twenty- 
one,  some  before,  some  later,  and  others  never.  It 
is  the  era  of  climbing,  anyway.  Yet  some  label  that 
plastic  period  the  epoch  of  transition,  others  the 
years  of  pliability,  and  still  others  the  saphead  age. 
Whatever  may  be  the  correct  term  to  use,  cer 
tainly  it  is  not  sapiency.  It  may  be  the  "ascent  of 
man,"  but  the  man  does  not  appear  until  after  the 
ascent. 

You  know  How  a  boy  works  on  the  third  of  July. 
The  enthusiastic  patriot  washes  the  old  buggy, 
cleans  the  harness,  and  slicks  up  in  general,  in  order 
to  be  spick  and  span  on  the  Fourth.  As  I  write  I 
stop  to  smile  at  how  that  rig  appeared  after  that 
awful  day  of  dust,  heat,  driving,  drenching,  and 
mud. 

Annie  and  I  drove  to  Washington  to  celebrate. 
The  brass  band,  the  marching  throng,  the  patriotic 
speeches,  and  lemonade  hawkers  bewildered  me. 
The  ragamuffins*  parade  completely  took  away  my 
senses.  Yes,  and  we  had  peanuts  and  candy  galore. 


82  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

It  was  a  glorious  event !  I  know  I  grew  sentimental 
coming  home  that  evening,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I 
was  dead  in  earnest.  We  understood  each  other  and 
had  the  sense  to  be  patient.  We  were  allowed  to 
spend  the  day  together,  because  I  was  sort  of  guar 
dian  brother  to  Annie,  but  of  course  we  considered 
matters  a  little  more  seriously,  as  sixteen-year-old 
lads  and  lasses  do,  you  know. 

Thus  the  summer  passed.  The  health  of  Uncle 
Joe  was  excellent.  The  crops  turned  out  well  and 
were  snugly  stored  in  the  barns.  Several  straw  and 
hay  stacks  showed  the  abundance  of  harvest.  We 
were  rilling  the  cellar.  The  bins  were  bursting  with 
smooth  potatoes  and  blushing  apples.  Then  came 
on  a  cold  rain  in  October.  It  seemed  oppressive  to 
me.  A  sense  of  dissatisfaction  crept  over  me,  where 
before  had  been  unalloyed  happiness.  I  went  after 
the  cows  in  the  late  afternoon.  From  either  side  of 
the  mountain  came  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  locomo 
tives  and  their  heavy  breathing.  The  long  sup 
pressed  desire  for  railroading  burst  out  anew.  The 
startling  whistle  of  a  bobwhite,  coming  up  from  the 
rail  fence,  increased  the  longing.  Manhood  was 
covering  my  boyish  notions  and  sentiments.  The 
boy  may  have  been  a  good  farmer;  the  man  never 
could  be.  Standing  beneath  a  large  tree,  under 
which  I  had  taken  shelter  from  a  passing  shower,  I 
concluded,  finally  and  forever,  that  railroading 
should  be  my  lifework.  My  education  was  from  the 
common  schools,  with  two  terms  in  a  high  school, 


The  Fever.  83 

certainly  sufficient,  I  thought,  for  an  ordinary  rail 
roader. 

At  present  I  had  a  good  home,  where  I  might  live 
forever,  as  far  as  I  knew,  but  it  seemed  more  like 
sponging  than  living.  They  had  taken  me  in  when 
I  was  in  need.  That  had  put  me  under  obligations 
to  them.  I  considered  the  obligation  met.  Now 
was  the  time  to  leave. 

At  the  fireside  that  evening  I  broke  the  news. 
There  was  surprise,  yet  Uncle  Joe,  especially,  knew 
how  to  sympathize  with  me.  He  had  himself 
once  been  a  poor,  homeless  boy,  and  began  life  at 
sixteen. 

"Of  course,  it's  for  you  to  decide,  Willie,"  said 
he.  "We'd  like  you  to  stay  with  us  as  long's  you 
like,  but  if  you're  not  contented  with  the  farm  and 
want  to  railroad  it,  why,  the  time's  come  for  you  to 
begin.  Remember,  you  go  away  with  our  best 
wishes.  I  want  you  always  to  feel  that  this  is  your 
home,  and  the  latchstring  hangs  on  the  outside.  'F 
you  could  stay  a  week  or  two  longer,  till  I  could  get 
my  fall  work  done,  'twould  be  a  great  accommoda 
tion;  but  if  you  think  you'd  better  go  now,  why, 
that's  for  you  to  say." 

I  immediately  promised  to  help  on  the  farm  till 
cold  weather  set  in.  Annie  had  quietly  stolen  up  to 
her  room  when  her  father  began  to  talk.  When  I 
passed  her  open  door  on  my  way  to  bed  I  heard  a 
restless  sob.  Her  eyes  confirmed  my  supposition 
when  she  came  to  the  breakfast  table.  The  same  fire 


84  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

burned  in  me.  To  give  way  to  it  then  meant  yield 
ing  to  sentiment  rather  than  to  reason. 

Those  two  weeks  were  rather  sad  ones.  They 
flew  by  as  on  wings.  The  morning  of  my  leave- 
taking  came.  Uncle  Joe  placed  in  my  hand  one  hun 
dred  dollars  in  gold.  I  could  not  take  it.  It  was 
too  much.  "  T  you  don't  want  it  now,  Willie,"  said 
he,  "take  part  of  it  and  leave  the  rest  here  payable 
on  demand." 

I  had  to  do  it.  One  fourth  of  it  I  took  with  me, 
the  remainder  I  left  behind.  Surely  I  did  not  want, 
for  goodness  and  mercy  had  followed  me  all  the 
days  of  my  life. 

When  Aunt  Phoebe  kissed  me  good-bye  she  placed 
in  my  hand  two  pairs  of  thick,  woolen  socks  knit  by 
her  own  hands.  I  felt  a  little  guilty  that  I  had  ever 
teased  the  good  old  soul.  Aunt  Jane  gave  me  a 
Bible  and  a  "God  bless  you"  with  it.  Annie's  gift, 
the  most  precious  of  them  all,  was  a  tear. 

I  choked,  jumped  into  the  wagon,  and  rode  away 
in  silence  with  Uncle  Joe.  At  the  station  we  said 
good-bye.  With  my  trunk  checked  and  myself 
speeding  along  in  the  train,  I  had  time  to  meditate, 
to  shed  a  few  tears,  and  face  the  world  alone  again. 
This  time,  however,  I  had  friends  and  a  home  be 
hind.  Fortune  lay  before  me.  Again  I  was  among 
strangers,  but  with  an  aim.  Au  revoir  to  old  Sum- 
merfield  and  Summerfield  friends ! 


MANHOOD. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
A  Wiper. 

IT  iWAS  a  crisp  morning  in  November,  and 
everything  was  humming  in  the  yard  of  the 
C.  O.  &  B.  Railroad  at  Bryson.  The  city  was 
the  terminus  of  the  Eastern  and  Mountain  Divisions. 
Inside,  among  the  numerous  offices,  all  were  busy, 
from  the  superintendent  to  the  lowest  clerk.  In  those 
days  the  division  superintendent — the  "old  man,"  as 
he  was  called  by  the  boys — hired  the  trainmen.  I 
found  my  way  up  into  his  office  and  stood  timidly 
beside  him.  Finishing  a  brief  order,  with  a  rapidity 
that  startled  me,  he  turned  his  chair  and  with  an 
eagle  eye  looked  me  through,  asking  hurriedly, 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I  want  a  job  on  the  road." 

With  another  roll  of  his  eyes  he  turned  to  the 
desk,  saying,  "What!  a  little  fellow  like  you  want 
to  go  on  the  road?  No!" 

"Can't  I  get  some  position  where  I  can  work  up  ?" 

"You  might  be  a  wiper,"  he  added,  between  the 
sentences  he  was  dashing  off  with  his  pen. 

"Will  you  give  me  the  job?" 


86  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

After  a  long  pause  he  jerked  out,  "Go  t'  the  as 
sistant  trainmaster.  Good-morning!" 

I  soon  found  the  aforesaid  official  and  engaged  as 
wiper,  assistant  hostler,  and  boy  of  all  jobs.  The 
roundhouse  became  my  home;  the  railroaders  my 
companions.  At  first  they  all  appeared  about  the 
same  to  me,  gruff,  hurrying,  reckless,  jolly,  swear 
ing,  and  selfish  fellows.  But  a  week's  time  not  only 
revealed  to  me  many  good-natured  "boys,"  but  also 
many  a  true,  clean  heart  beneath  the  greasy,  blue 
blouses.  The  ones  given  to  the  most  talk  usually 
proved  to  be  of  least  account.  I  learned  that  rail 
roads,  like  all  institutions  and  machines,  except  wind 
mills,  cannot  be  run  by  wind. 

No  sooner  had  my  work  begun  than  my  outer 
crosses  burdened  me.  It  took  all  my  strength  to  keep 
sweet.  The  first  afternoon  while  wiping  one  engine 
a  burly  fellow  ran  another  in  from  the  turntable  over 
the  adjoining  pit,  and,  dropping  to  the  floor  beside 
me,  commanded  in  a  voice  that  made  the  roundhouse 
reecho,  "Here,  Stub,  shine  up  this  'ere  hoss,  an' 
don't  be  all  day  'bout  it ;  do  it  while  she's  hot !" 

I  obeyed  orders,  supposing  that  he  probably  owned 
stock  in  the  road,  there  being  no  one  around  just 
then  to  inform  me  otherwise.  As  he  passed  out  of 
the  roundhouse  I  heard  him  shout  to  the  foreman, 
"Hey,  Mike!  what  gamin  ye  got  over  there  fur  a 
wiper?  He  don't  know  an  ingin  from  a  coal  jimmy, 
and  would  wipe  a  stone  boat  if  some  ole  farmer 
hauled  one  in  here  an'  told  'im  to," 


A  Wiper.  87 

Before  quitting  that  day  I  asked  Mr.  Rooney,  the 
roundhouse  boss,  who  the  fellow  was  that  brought 
in  that  nice  clean  engine. 

"Sure  an'  he's  a  brakesman  on  the  Eastern  Divi 
sion  an'  thinks  he  knows  all  'bout  railroodin' ;  an'  I 
guess  he  do  know  all  'e  iver  will,  fur  'is  head  gearin' 
don't  be  much  when  the  hole  fur  's  mouth's  took  out. 
He's  a  ben  on  the  rood  'bout  six  wakes,  an'  I  doubt  'f 
'e  stays  that  much  longer.  Th'  ingine  'e  fetched  in 
come  frum  the  sheds  over  thare  an'  didn't  need 
wipin'  half  so  bad  's  'is  ears.  Look  a-here,  my  boy," 
continued  the  good-hearted  Irishman,  as  he  laid  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  "ye're  a  granehorn,  an'  let  me 
give  ye  a  bit  o'  good  advice.  The  fust  thing  a  rail- 
rooder  must  larn  is  who's  the  boss.  Noo,  I'm 
boss  o'  this  yer  roundhouse,  an'  if  things  be  not  doon 
right,  I'm  a  holdin'  fur  't  all  an'  all.  'F  yez  slight 
yer  worruk  the  blame  cooms  kerslap  back  to  me — 
see?  I've  let  yez  do  purty  much  yer  own  way  to 
day,  so  I  have,  to  see  'f  yez'd  neglect  yer  worruk,  an' 
I've  kept  a  mighty  clus  eye  on  yez,  too,  an*  I  find  yez 
entarely  satisfact'ry.  Billy — that  's  yer  name,  ain't 
it? — that's  a  fust-class  recommend.  Noo,  rec'lect, 
yez  beholdin'  to  nobody  fur  nothin'  axcept  me,  an'  's 
long  's  yez  do  's  I  say  it's  nobody's  bizness,  an'  it's 
Mike  Rooney,  the  boss,  what's  a-tellin'  yez,  bedad! 
An'  then  whin  Mouthy  Anderson,  er  inyone  else — 
yes,  an'  th'  super'ntindent  o'  the  road  aven — gives 
yez  lip,  talk  back  's  much  's  ye  plase  's  long  's  yez  be 
respictable.  Stan'  up  fur  the  right,  an'  take  nuthin' 


88  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

frum  nobody.  Never  ye  fear,  fur  's  long  's  yez  doos 
what's  to  my  liking'  an'  'f  yez  do  be  inter  trooble — 
an'  yez  will,  'cause  yez  be  so  leetle — brace  up  an' 
use  a  powker  if  necissity  calls  fur  it,  an*  if  that 
be  not  enuff  yez  '11  find  Mike  Rooney  cluse  for- 
ninst  an'  behint.  An'  doos  yez  understand,  Billy, 
meb'y?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Rooney,  I'll  remember  what  you  have 
said  and  profit  by  your  advice.  Thank  you  for  it, 
and  good-night." 

I  never  forgot  the  old  man's  words,  nor  did  I  lose 
his  confidence  or  support.  He  was  a  rough  man, 
but  honest,  and  as  true  as  steel.  His  word  was  as 
sure  as  the  hills. 

Strange  faces  greeted  me  every  day.  One  clean- 
faced,  corpulent  engineer  came  for  his  locomotive  at 
seven-fifteen  every  day  with  a  round,  cheery  "Good- 
morning,  my  boy.  Is  she  neat's  a  pin?"  I  always 
managed  to  be  near  old  444  when  he  came  in.  I 
liked  the  engineer  from  the  first.  Saturday  night  he 
brought  in  the  engine  himself;  the  fireman  usually 
did  it.  Swinging  wearily  from  the  lower  step,  he 
approached  me  with  a  pleasant  yet  serious  smile,  say 
ing,  "Are  you  a  stranger  in  Bryson  ?" 

I  told  him  that  I  was. 

"Let  me  see,  what  is  your  name?"  as  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  little  notebook. 

I  told  him. 

"What  you  going  to  do  to-morrow?"  writing 
clown  my  name  and  address, 


A  Wiper.  89 

"Go  to  church  somewhere,  I  guess,  but  I  don't 
know  just  where." 

"You're  a  Christian,  then,  I  take  it,  and  you'd 
better  come  over  to  our  church,  the  Asbury  Metho 
dist,  at  ten-thirty  in  the  morning.  I'll  see  you  there 
and  get  you  into  the  Sunday  school.  Then  you'll  go 
home  to  dinner  with  me.  In  the  afternoon  we'll  go 
down  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

I  was  overjoyed.  I  knew  I  had  found  not  only  a 
Christian  man,  but  a  friend  and  a  church  home  in  a 
strange  place.  Orin  Neely,  I  knew,  had  brought 
the  engine  into  the  roundhouse  that  afternoon,  tired 
as  he  was,  for  the  sole  reason  of  making  me  at  home. 
I  was  a  stranger  and  he  took  me  in.  Ever  afterward 
I  found  "Ot"  Neely  a  diamond  in  the  rough,  the 
roughness  consisting  entirely  of  his  railroad  clothes. 

You  may  rest  assured  that  I  spent  my  first  Sunday 
in  Bryson  perfectly  at  home,  for  when  I  sat  in  the 
Neely  pew  I  recognized  my  old  friend  Leeder  in  the 
pulpit.  He,  too,  recognized  me  with  a  hearty  wel 
come  at  the  close  of  the  service.  That  Sabbath  was 
a  twelve-hour  meditation.  Old  faces  recalled  old 
scenes.  My  former  life  passed  in  review.  When  I 
found  my  warmest  friend  of  yore,  Miss  Colder,  to 
be  Mrs.  Leeder  I  was  still  more  at  home.  Within  a 
fortnight  I  was  a  member  of  the  Asbury  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  of  its  Sunday  school,  and  the 
railroad  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  with  a  host  of  friends  around 
me.  I  learned  that  no  one  need  go  friendless  or 


90  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

workless  in  a  strange  place  if  his  past  life  Had  been 
exemplary.  A  church  letter  is  the  very  best  recom 
mendation.  Birth  and  poverty  are  easily  overcome 
by  character. 

The  roundhouse  and  the  work  agreed  with  me.  I 
grew  fat  and  happy;  as  Rooney  put  it,  "quick  an* 
sassy."  I  whistled  and  sung  to  my  heart's  content. 
The  winter  wore  away.  No.  444  had  just  gone  out 
into  a  March  blizzard  leaving  in  my  soul  a  wake  of 
joy  from  its  engineer.  No.  963  almost  immediately 
came  in,  steaming  from  its  hot  jackets  and  cylinders, 
and  its  cooler  portions  covered  with  snow.  The  fire 
man  had  had  a  hard  run  and  was  tired  and  cross. 
No  sooner  did  he  spy  me  than  he  began :  "See  here ! 
you,  young  Barson,  wha'  d'ye  leave  the  best  poker 
off  the  tank  fur,  last  night?  'F  ye  ever  cut  that 
caper  on  me  agin  I'll  use  the  next  one  over  yer 
head.  D'ye  hear?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  simultaneously  turning  on  the 
blower  and  my  individual  whistle,  for  I  was  firing 
up  369  that  was  going  out  in  a  few  minutes. 

"Whistle,  'f  ye  want  to,  ye  young,  spotted  brat.  I 
won't  stan'  any  more  o*  yer  tomfoolery  afore  I  re 
port  ye." 

I  leaned  out  of  the  cab  window  and  replied  as 
calmly  as  possible:  "Every  poker  was  on  963  last 
night,  and  she  was  popping  at  a  hundred  and  forty- 
five  pounds  when  you  took  her  out.  As  for  you're 
reporting,  go  ahead !" 

"You're  a  liar,  'n  ye  know  it,  an'  I  c'n  back  it,  too ! 


A  Wiper.  91 

.You  take  it  back  er  I'll  jam  yer  lyin'  tongue  clear 
down  yer  gullet." 

Before  you  could  say  "Jack  Robinson"  he  was 
into  the  tank  and  had  me  by  the  nape  of  the  neck 
shaking  me  all  the  way  down  the  steps  to  the  floor 
of  the  roundhouse.  But  he  had  no  sooner  landed 
than  he  went  one  way  and  I  the  other,  and  the  voice 
of  Mike  Rooney  sounded  between  us,  "I'll  tache  yez 
to  tech  one  o'  me  b'ys !  Yez  don't  know  nuf  to  fire 
Biddy's  cook  stove,  yez  don't,  an'  Mike  Rooney  's 
the  man  what  ken  bate  it  inter  yez  pate,  that's  what 
'e  ken — thar,  an'  bad  luck  ter  yez!" 

The  two-hundred-pound  fireman  rose  on  the  one 
side  of  the  referee  and  I  on  the  other,  while  the 
boss  of  the  roundhouse  gesticulated  with  a  brake- 
stick — the  peacemaker  of  the  occasion.  Then  the 
cool,  good-hearted  Irishman  went  into  explanations : 

"Thar's  yer  powker,  Al,  what  yez  be  blowin' 
about,  an'  it's  thar  from  yer  own  carelessness,  so  it 
be.  Yez  powked  the  fire,  yez  did,  'fore  ye  took  963 
out,  an'  whin  yez  went  off  the  turntable  an'  over  the 
frog  it  jarred  off  an'  yer  head  do  be  so  full  o'  nuthin' 
that  yez  couldn't  hear  me  spake  to  yez,  though  but  I 
yelled  a  lung  out.  Ax  the  b'y  his  pardin  now  an' 
be  a  man,  an'  no  more  o'  yez  blatherskitin'  about 
this  place  agin  an'  agin." 

The  fireman  extended  his  hand,  which  I  grasped. 
The  misunderstanding  was  understood.  We  were 
friends  from  that  hour. 


92  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
On  the  Road. 

BLOOMING  spring  matured  into  sedate  sum 
mer.     The  roundhouse  was  hot  and  stuffy 
with  the  smell  of  gas  and  grease  constantly 
in  the  air.     Nearly  every  railroader  on  the  Eastern 
and  Mountain  Divisions  became  well  known  to  me. 
The  majority  treated  me  kindly,  though  much  as  a 
boy.    I  felt  like  a  man.    Others  saw  more  than  boy 
hood  carefulness  in  my  work  and  manners.    All 
greeted  me  with  the  sobriquet  "Billy  Stub;"  a  few 
with  contempt,  but  most  of  them  with  affection. 

The  Summerneld  home  floated  through  my 
memory  many  a  time,  and  stood  out  a  reality,  almost, 
at  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Annie  every  fortnight. 
My  heart  yearned  for  the  familiar  scenes  and  friends, 
yet  I  felt  no  desire  to  return  to  the  farm.  The  Stone- 
man  homestead  remained  in  mind  like  an  island 
floating  on  the  sea  just  under  the  rim  of  the  horizon, 
while  the  orphanage  rested  like  a  soft  haze  where  the 
upper  and  nether  blues  united. 

"Say,  Billy!  d'  you  ever  think  of  going  on  the 
road  ?"  said  my  friend  Neely  as  he  laid  a  broad  palm 
on  my  knee.  We  sat  under  a  maple  that  shaded  a 
part  of  his  closely  mown  lawn.  It  was  a  sultry  Sun 
day  evening  in  dog  days.  The  service  at  the  churcll 


On  the  Road.  93 

had  been  brief.  I  was  whiling  away  a  few  moments 
with  a  man  whom  I  had  learned  to  love  almost  like 
a  father. 

"I've  had  my  eye  on  you  ever  since  you  came  to 
Bryson,  and  though  you're  small  you're  strong  and 
active.  I  know  of  no  reason  why  you  can't  get  a 
brake  if  you  want  to.  Weight  don't  make  a  man; 
if  it  did  I'd  be  among  the  great,"  he  concluded  with 
a  muffled  chuckle  that  shook  his  fat  sides.  "Times 
has  been  slack  for  a  spell,  but  in  a  month  or  so  the 
fall  business'll  liven  up  things.  Some  o'  the  boys 
have  left,  and  there'll  be  some  promotions,  and  that 
means  a  place  for  new  men.  If  you'd  like  to  run 
your  chances  with  us,  why  I'll  see  that  you  get  a  job. 
I've  been  on  the  road  for  twenty-four  years  and 
ought  to  know  a  thing  or  two  about  railroading,  and 
I  guess  I've  got  a  little  influence  with  the  superin 
tendent  of  the  Mountain  Division,  for  he  flagged  on 
the  same  train  I  began  firing  on.  You  know 
Brother  Leeder,  this  morning  in  his  sermon,  com 
pared  life  to  a  railroad,  wth  its  grades,  fills,  cuts, 
tunnels,  switches,  side-tracks,  signals,  and  wrecks; 
and  yet,  if  Christ  be  the  engineer  it's  a  good  run,  an 
excellent  roadbed,  and  safety  guaranteed  to  the 
terminus.  With  him  there's  no  danger  of  open 
switches,  washouts,  weak  bridges,  landslides,  or 
broken  axles.  You're  running  behind  that  Engineer 
now,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  ain't  just  as  safe  on 
the  road  as  in  the  roundhouse.  What  d'ye  say, 
Billy?" 


94  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

It  took  me  but  a  moment  to  inform  him  that  that 
was  the  one  reason  why  I  came  to  Bryson,  and  the 
sooner  I  was  on  the  road  the  better  to  my  liking. 

"All  right,  my  boy!"  he  replied,  rising  and  carry 
ing  his  chair  to  the  porch.  "I'll  remember  you. 
Good-night!" 

As  the  gate  closed  behind  me  and  my  feet  struck 
the  walk  I  began  in  a  low,  suppressed  tone  to  whistle 
"Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee."  Once  in  my  room  I 
committed  myself  to  the  care  of  the  Engineer  who 
never  slumbers,  and  was  soon  speeding  over  the  rails 
of  refreshing  sleep. 

One  cool  evening  in  October,  as  I  was  leaving  the 
roundhouse,  Rooney  came  to  me  saying  that  the 
superintendent  of  the  Mountain  Division  wanted  to 
see  me.  "I'm  afeered  as  he  wants  yez  fur  permotion, 
Billy.  Yez  desarve  it,  sure,  but  yez  be  a  fit  here  an' 
yez  be  a  b'y  I  ken  depind  on.  But  good  luck  to  yez. 
The  'ole  man'  cartainly  has  nothin'  agin  yez.  Good 
night,  me  b'y,  an'  if  yez  niver  come  back  to  worruk 
under  Mike  Rooney  ye'll  lave  a  good  friend  behint, 
so  yez  will." 

By  noon  the  next  day  I  was  middle  brakeman  on 
a  train  of  empty  coal  jimmies,  steaming  over  the 
Mountain  Division. 

"Leaping  o'er  mountain,  o'er  valley  and  plain, 
What  a  wonderful  thing  is  a  railroad  train !" 

The  sensation  was  new  to  me,  but  I  liked  it. 
The  weather  was  exhilarating,  the  scenes  unfamiliar, 


On  the  Road.  95 

my  heart  young  and  unaccustomed  to  the  dangers 
and  accidents  of  the  road.  Looking  backward,  with 
my  present  experience,  I  can  see  human  blood  on 
almost  every  milepost.  We  talk  of  the  numbers 
killed  and  wounded  in  battle,  drowned  at  sea,  and 
ruined  body  and  soul  by  all  the  devilish  devices  and 
crimes  consequent  on  the  saloon,  but  we  often  forget 
the  numbers  slaughtered  on  the  rail. 

The  statistics  for  the  year  ending  June  30,  1899, 
are  that  there  were  seven  thousand  one  hundred 
and  twenty-three  persons  killed  by  railroads  in 
the  United  States,  and  forty-four  thousand  six  hun 
dred  and  twenty  more  or  less  injured.  The  figures 
alone  would  almost  intimidate  passengers  from  en 
tering  a  railway  coach,  yet  when  they  understand 
that  of  the  above  number  only  two  hundred  and 
thirty-nine  passengers  were  killed  and  three  thou 
sand  three  hundred  and  forty-two  injured,  making 
a  distance  of  over  sixty  millions  of  miles  traveled  to 
one  injured,  the  case  is  not  so  sickening.  In  fact,  it 
is  as  safe  as  any  mode  of  travel  allowing  for  the 
numbers  accommodated. 

Also,  among  the  total  accidents  were  four  thou 
sand  five  hundred  and  seventy-four  killed  and  six 
thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty-five  injured  who 
were  trespassers,  many  of  them  tramps  and  hobos. 
Yet  the  slaughter  of  railroad  employees  is  shocking, 
and  I  shudder  to  think  of  my  narrow  escapes  and  re 
joice  at  God's  kind  providence  over  me.  During  the 
period  between  September  30,  1888,  and  the  same 


96  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

time,  1899,  there  were  in  the  United  States  twenty- 
five  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety  railroad  em 
ployees  killed  and  three  hundred  and  twenty-two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  forty-six  injured — a  great 
army  of  able-bodied  men.  Compared  with  all  wars 
since  the  Franco-Prussian  one,  the  railroad  appears 
the  greatest  slaughter  pen. 

Notwithstanding,  the  railway  has  become  a  neces 
sity,  is  here  to  stay,  and  will  always  find  plenty  of 
good  men  to  risk  life  and  limb  in  its  service.  We 
believe  that  no  other  public  conveyance  has  been  of 
more  benefit  to  the  people,  with  fewer  accidents  in 
proportion  to  the  numbers  employed,  money  in 
vested,  tonnage  carried,  and  persons  accommodated. 
Let  that  be  as  it  may,  I  was  thoroughly  happy  on 
my  first  trip  over  the  Mountain  Division  of  the 
C.  O.  &  B.  Railroad.  I  have  enjoyed  my  railroad 
life  ever  since,  and  expect  to  follow  the  road  until 
disabled  or  removed  by  age  limit  or  infirmity.  The 
uppermost  thought  in  my  mind  was:  "I  am  a 
strange  being — plenty  of  friends,  but,  to  my  knowl 
edge,  not  one  of  my  kith  and  kin  living.  I  could 
bear  it  all  if  I  had  only  a  brother." 


A  Wreck.  97 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
A  Wreck. 

THE  most  attractive  pair  that  ever  walked 
the  streets  of  Coalville  were  Chunky  and 
I ;  not  on  account  of  our  beauty  and  grace, 
but  of  our  oddity.  You,  my  reader,  know  about 
my  size,  but  you  don't  know  how  tall  Chunky  was. 
I  could  easily  walk  under  his  outstretched  arm  with 
an  ordinary  hat  on,  and  then  clear  by  half  an  inch. 
However,  Chunky  and  I  became  chummy  friends  for 
the  few  hours  of  each  trip  we  lay  over  at  Coalville 
before  our  return  to  Bryson.  Every  alternate  day 
one  might  see  the  long  and  the  short  of  our  train 
crew  sauntering  along  the  streets  of  the  city  at  the 
western  terminus  of  the  Mountain  Division. 

Chunky  fired ;  I  ran  head  brake.  What  a  night ! 
The  streets  of  Bryson  snapped  with  the  cold.  The 
yard  was  comparatively  empty,  its  network  of 
switches  swept  with  a  gale  through  which  the  sev 
eral  colors  of  the  switch  lamps  gleamed  in  the  dark 
ness  like  the  eyes  of  wild  animals.  We  were  the 
last  crew  boarded  out  that  night.  The  wind  blew  at 
a  cutting  rate,  and  the  thermometer  registered  sev 
eral  degrees  below  zero.  It  was  cloudy  and  dark; 
too  cold  to  storm,  but  the  little  snow  that  had  already 
fallen  was  rapidly  drifting  with  the  thickly  flying 


98  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

frost.  No  one  exposed  himself  except  from  necessity. 
Chunky  had  the  kitchen  hot.  I  stuck  to  the  cab, 
except  when  switching.  With  ears  and  face  tied 
up  almost  to  suffocation,  I  could  scarcely  hear  the 
loud,  hollow  squeaking  and  squealing  of  the  wheels 
through  the  frozen  snow  and  over  the  curving, 
frost-bitten  rails. 

The  conductor  came  out  of  the  office  with  orders. 
I  met  him,  received  the  engineer's  slip,  and,  as  the 
conductor  swung  his  lantern  up  and  down,  I  started 
on  a  trot  for  the  locomotive.  Toot-toot!  sounded 
the  whistle  sharp  and  wheezy  in  the  frosty  night. 
The  heavy  breathing  of  the  engine  began  and  the 
train  slowly  wound  its  way  out  of  the  complication 
of  switches  and  onto  the  main  track. 

I  glanced  at  the  orders  and  handed  them  over  the 
boiler  to  the  engineer.  It  was  a  straight  meet  order 
— "Meet  No.  6  at  Mountdale  and  run  to  Summit 
for  orders."  Closing  every  possible  crevice  in  the 
cab  and  nestling  close  up  to  the  warm  jacket  of  the 
boiler,  I  was  soon  lulled  to  a  wakeful,  dreamy  sleep 
by  the  hollow  panting  of  the  engine,  the  occasional 
shoveling  and  picking  of  coal  by  Chunky,  the  open 
ing  and  closing  of  the  firebox  door,  and  the  low 
whistling  of  Sam,  who  sat  at  the  throttle. 

At  Netherton  we  took  water,  and  twenty  minutes 
later  slowly  ran  into  the  siding  at  Mountdale. 
Chunky  had  old  454  popping  at  a  hundred  and  forty- 
five  pounds  when  No.  6  rushed  by.  We  immediately 
pulled  out  and  began  climbing  the  mountain. 


A  Wreck.  99 

At  five  forty-five  we  had  again  taken  water, 
hooked  onto  twenty  more  empties,  received  orders, 
and  left  the  Summit.  I  handed  the  orders,  "Meet 
32  at  Rio  and  proceed  to  Coalville,"  to  Sam,  who 
read  them  and  remarked,  "Billy,  you'll  be  a  dead 
boy  if  you  stay  out  on  the  jimmies  to  Rio  to-night." 

"I  guess  not,"  I  replied,  at  the  same  time  pulling 
down  my  cap  tighter,  buttoning  my  coat,  and 
clambering  out  over  the  tender  onto  the  coal  jimmies 
that  were  already  rattling  and  bobbing  down  the 
mountain.  It  was  all  down-grade,  an  easy  run  of 
thirty-five  miles,  but,  O,  the  air  and  the  night!  I 
turned  on  a  couple  of  brakes,  went  back  two  more 
cars,  and  sat  down  partially  sheltered  by  the  side  of 
an  empty  jimmy.  The  north  wind  cut  my  face, 
what  little  was  exposed,  like  a  knife.  A  volume  of 
black  smoke  escaping  from  the  stack,  due  to  a 
freshly  covered  fire,  mingled  with  the  steam  from 
the  pop.  The  wind  twisted,  jerked,  and  hurled  the 
cloud.  The  firelight  shining  from  the  open  door 
gilded  its  under  surface.  The  frost  and  clouds  of 
snow  from  the  track  and  drifting  cuts  flecked  it. 
The  whole  made  a  weird  picture  of  a  thundering 
train  descending  a  wild  grade  on  a  mad  night. 

At  just  six  o'clock  we  passed  Crescent  siding.  I 
was  numb  with  cold.  I  had  eight  brakes  on  when 
Sam  whistled  brakes  with  such  suddenness  that  I 
nearly  lost  my  balance  while  jumping  to  the  next 
car.  As  I  twisted  the  brake  wheel  with  all  my 
might  I  saw  a  headlight  on  a  curve  just  ahead.  An- 


100  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

other  yank  and,  as  I  sprang  for  the  side  of  the  car 
preparatory  to  a  jump  for  life,  old  454  went  into 
the  approaching  train.  Would  God  that  I  might 
obliterate  from  my  thoughts  the  memory  of  that 
picture!  The  two  pilots  crashed  into  each  other 
with  a  hellish  boom,  while  both  whistles  were  wide 
open.  Our  engine  stove  in  the  front  of  the  other's 
boiler  and  plunged  over  the  bank.  The  escapng 
steam,  congealed  into  icy  crystals,  stung  my  face. 
The  car  to  which  I  clung  climbed  up  into  the  dark 
ness  in  the  trail  of  live  coals  hurled  from  the  rearing 
iron  horses.  Borne  to  my  ears  on  the  biting  blast 
from  the  lips  of  Chunky  was,  "O — God !"  My  brain 
was  on  fire.  I  became  dizzy.  The  cars  reeled,  toppled, 
and  sank  under  me.  Another  crash,  and  I  knew  no 
more. 

"Into  the  ward  of  whitewashed  walls, 
Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay." 

My  eyes  opened.  The  sun  streamed  in  through  a 
great  southern  window.  The  air  redolent  with  anti 
septics  was  pure  and  warm.  I  felt  stinging  pains  in 
my  right  leg,  and  realized  that  I  was  fast  with  a 
weight  suspended  to  my  foot.  My  whole  body  was 
sore.  My  fingers  and  toes  smarted  as  if  burned.  A 
pleasant  face  under  a  white  cap  bent  over  me,  and  a 
soft  hand  stroked  my  burning  forehead,  while  the 
owner  of  the  hand  spoke  with  a  voice  as  balmy  as  a 
May  morning  and  as  cheery  as  a  rippling  brook: 
"Lie  still,  now,  my  good  fellow,  you're  in  good 
hands."  After  all,  I  was  quite  comfortable. 


A  Wreck.  101 

As  the  hand  continued  back  and  forth  across  my 
brow  I  heard  wild  utterances  from  a  strangely  fa 
miliar  voice:  "O!  My  God!  Where's  Billy?  Is 
he  killed?" 

My  lips  opened  and  I  shouted,  not  very  loudly  but 
with  all  my  strength,  "No,  Chunky,  I'm  all  right!" 
The  smooth  palm  slid  over  my  mouth,  and  further 
communication  ceased.  But  the  anxiety  was  re 
lieved,  for  I  heard  my  friend  moan  in  satisfaction, 
"Thank  God!  Billy's  alive!" 

Gradually  the  events  of  the  wreck  came  back  to 
my  mind,  like  approaching  objects  through  a  fog. 
I  realized  that  I  was  in  a  hospital.  The  sun  slowly 
crept  along  the  floor,  up  the  wall,  faded  to  a  gos 
samer  tint,  and  disappeared.  Twilight  deepened  and 
darkness  came  on  apace.  A  great  contentment  filled 
my  soul  as  I  murmured,  "He  that  keepeth  thee  shall 
not  slumber.  Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall 
neither  slumber  nor  sleep."  The  nurse  gave  me  a 
drink  of  water,  after  which  I  fell  asleep  as  calmly  as 
a  babe  on  its  mother's  breast. 

The  ward  was  flooded  with  sunshine  when  I 
awoke.  I  was  myself  again,  except  for  the  physical 
breaks  and  bruises.  I  turned  my  head  to  the  right. 
Within  ten  feet  of  me  I  saw  the  matted  and  tangled 
hair  of  Chunky,  as  his  head  rolled  nervously  on  his 
pillow.  The  tumbled  bed  and  immediate  presence  of 
a  nurse  told  of  his  suffering  and  danger.  His  face 
turned  toward  me.  The  color  had  gone,  and  even 
my  inexperienced  eye  detected  the  approach  of  death. 


102  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"Good-morning,  Chunky !  How  do  you  feel  ?"  I 
asked,  and  shuddered  at  the  strangeness  of  my  own 
voice. 

"O,  Billy,  I'm  glad  you're  not  smashed — but  I 
guess — I've  made  my  last  run.  Billy,  I'm  all 
bunged  to  pieces — doctors  say  there's  no  use  am- 
putatin' — for  they  wouldn't  know — wouldn't  know 
where  to  begin — nor  end.  O — it's  all  up  with  me — 
Oh-h-h!  These  awful  pains!  It's  better  me  nor 
you — mighty  tough,  though — but  I'm  satisfied^— 
Oh-h-h!"  He  choked  and  coughed  as  the  nurse 
raised  his  head  that  he  might  breathe  the  easier.  It 
was  horrible  to  see  his  large,  muscular  frame  bruised 
almost  to  a  pulp,  and  as  weak  as  an  infant. 

"No,  no,  Chunky!  It's  not  so  bad  as  you  think. 
Cheer  up,  old  chump.  We'll  soon  be  back  on  the 
road  as  well's  ever." 

"No,  Billy,  no !"  He  breathed  with  difficulty  and 
the  death  rattle  was  in  his  throat.  "I'll  never  make 
— another  run  on  the  old — C.  O.  &  B. — again,  but 
I'm  making — a  fast  run  to — the  New  Jerusalem. 
Roadbed  purty  rough,  just  now.  It's  straight's  a 
die.  No  coal  jimmies  on  here — Billy — and  no 
shovelin'.  I've  tried  to  be  a — brother  to  you,  Billy — 
but  I've  made — bunglin'  work  at  it.  You've  found 
one  Elder  Brother — down — here — an'  I'll  soon  tell 
him  you're  a  credit  to  the  fambly.  He's  a  good 
Brother — to  me,  too — for  he  was  bruised  for  my  in 
iquity.  Guess  I  ought  to — stan'  my  few  scratches — 
without  a  whimper.  Hope  you'll  find — 'tother 


A  Wreck.  103 

brother  soon,  Billy.  When  I  get  in — I'll  come  down 
— down  to  the  station — every  day — to  meet  the  train 
— for  you'll  be  in — on  One  sure.  The  engineer's 
.whistlin' — now — for  the  station — I'm  at  the — end  o' 
my  run.  Don't  have  to  run — 454  into — the  round 
house." 

With  a  smile  on  his  face  that  shone  like  sunshine, 
he  continued — "O,  Billy,  it's  fine — station — they 
have — great  city — beautiful — lights — all  white — 
switches  closed — good-bye — Bill!"  and  the  strong 
fireman  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  shuddered,  and  was 
still.  The  nurse  tenderly  laid  the  sheet  over  his 
face,  and  my  best  railroad  friend  had  made  his  last 
trip. 

Chunky  would  never  have  been  an  engineer,  on 
account  of  his  illiteracy,  yet,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  he  was  a  man.  He  had  few  inherited  talents ; 
he  had  acquired  many.  Nature  had  not  endowed 
him  with  a  handsome  physique,  but  the  deficiencies 
along  that  line  were  more  than  counterbalanced  by 
a  large  heart  and  a  character  as  white  as  the  driven 
snow.  He  was  trustworthy,  honest,  and  a  Chris 
tian.  His  manners  were  crude,  but  his  life  was 
clean. 

Sorrowing  at  the  loss  of  a  brother,  my  thoughts 
wandered  to  the  little  cottage  at  Bryson,  where  a 
widow  and  four  fatherless  children  mourned. 
Chunky's  wife  had  spent  all  that  he  earned,  and 
just  as  rapidly  as  he  earned  it — a  great  misfortune. 
What  would  become  of  them  now?  The  railroad 


104  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

company  would  in  all  probability  bury  her  husband, 
and  further  than  that  she  could  expect  nothing  from 
them.  He  was  not  a  brotherhood  member.  Many 
of  his  friends  would  contribute  a  few  hundred  dol 
lars  for  the  widow,  but  what  of  that  among  so  many 
and  of  such  wasteful  habits. 

I  thought  over  the  two  sides — capital  and  labor. 
I  had  observed  that  few  railroaders,  though  draw 
ing  larger  pay  than  the  average  workingman,  ever 
became  comfortably  settled  in  a  home  of  their  own. 
Many  of  the  men  are  financially  negligent ;  more  of 
their  wives  prodigal.  A  few,  in  case  of  accident, 
draw  a  small  sum  from  lodges  or  brotherhoods, 
which  seems  worse  than  nothing  to  the  family  after 
the  habit  of  prodigality  has  been  formed. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  companies  employ  men 
who  are  willing  to  risk  even  life  for  them,  yet  in 
jury  throws  aside  the  faithful  servants  as  naught; 
while  death  on  the  road  may  leave  the  home  penni 
less,  without  any  recourse  whatever  to  the  company, 
save  through  tiresome  and  expensive  legal  compli 
cations,  in  which  the  costs  oftentimes  aggregate 
more  than  the  benefit  obtained. 

But  I  am  glad  that  a  few  great  corporations, 
among  them  some  railroad  companies,  are  treating 
their  employees  as  brothers.  In  the  West  and  the 
East  many  disabled  employees  receive  pensions, 
something  like  ten  to  fifty  per  cent  of  the  salary  they 
received  on  the  road,  based  on  the  time  of  service 
for  the  company  and  the  position  held  while  doing 


A  Wreck.  105 

active  duty.  The  company  reserves  the  right  to 
retire  any  employee  between  the  ages  of,  say,  sixty- 
one  and  seventy  years,  if  from  any  cause  they  have 
become  incapacitated  for  service.  This  means  an 
annual  outlay  of  many  thousands  of  dollars  without 
any  apparent  income.  However,  there  comes  into 
the  character  of  such  corporations  that  which  is 
worth  more  than  bonds,  while  the  employed  feel  the 
interests  of  the  road  as  their  own.  Under  such 
management  the  efficiency  of  a  road  is  increased  as 
well  as  that  of  the  individual  employee. 

Many  roads  refuse  to  employ  new  men  over 
thirty-five  years  of  age.  Some,  however,  that  main 
tain  the  pension  system,  apply  this  rule  to  men  of 
inexperience;  but  when  the  applicant  for  employ 
ment  has  had  experience  the  age  limit  is  put  at  forty- 
five.  Too  much  appreciation  cannot  be  shown  these 
corporations.  It  is  a  step  in  advance,  and  means 
much  toward  the  ultimate  settlement  of  the 
grievance  between  capital  and  labor.  The  employer 
loses  nothing  in  this  course  of  practical,  economic 
expenditure.  He  rather  gains  by  having  the  good 
will  of  the  employee  as  well  as  the  esteem  of  the 
public  he  serves;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  in  case 
of  accident  or  misfortune,  not  due  to  personal  fault 
or  carelessness,  no  honest  workman  will  be  cast 
aside  as  a  human  wreck  to  be  taken  over  the  hills 
to  the  poorhouse,  or  to  occupy  a  two-by-six  plot  in 
the  potter's  field. 


106  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
Convalescing. 

THE  odor  of  flowers  began  to  drift  in  through 
the  open  windows  of  our  ward.  Now  and 
then,  from  some  thoughtful,  sympathetic 
soul,  a  bouquet  of  liverwort,  adder' s-tongue,  or 
wake-robin — all  sweet  harbingers  of  spring — found 
its  way  to  one  of  our  tables.  I  was  convalescing 
rapidly.  The  news  of  the  outside  world  also  came 
to  me  through  the  papers.  I  learned  that  the  cause 
of  our  wreck  had  been  a  half-asleep  train  dis 
patcher.  Each  engineer  had  obeyed  orders.  One 
had  died  at  his  post.  Whistling  Sam  had  made  his 
last  run  at  the  throttle.  He  was  alive,  but  disabled. 
It  was  a  fortunate  wreck,  after  all,  for  only  four 
were  injured.  After  I  had  gone  on  the  road  again 
another  dispatcher  made  a  similar  blunder,  but  the 
enginemen  saw  each  other  in  time  to  stop  without 
a  collision.  Warren's  siding  was  close  at  hand,  and 
we  passed  without  loss  of  time.  Each  engineer 
blamed  the  other,  and  each  was  man  enough  to  keep 
his  mouth  closed.  The  dispatcher  never  saw  his 
error  until  it  was  pointed  out  to  him.  It  proved  to 
be  his  only  mistake,  though  he  remained  in  that 
office  for  years  afterward. 

Messages  of  love  came  to  me  every  fortnight  from 


Convalescing.  107 

the  hill  country  of  Summer-field.  One  day  when 
April  knew  not  whether  to  laugh  or  cry,  shine  or 
shower,  on  account  of  the  close  proximity  of  May, 
I  was  thrown  into  a  similar  fickle  mood.  Sitting 
at  the  foot  of  my  bed  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  a 
book,  the  nurse  quietly  touched  my  arm  and  in 
formed  me  that  a  gentleman  awaited  me  in  the  re 
ception  room.  Almost  leaping  from  my  chair  for 
joy,  the  nurse  held  me  back,  kindly  saying  that  she 
would  roll  me  into  the  room  if  I  would  be  composed. 
The  assurance  quieted  me  at  once,  and  in  a  moment 
I  sat  in  the  presence  of  good  Mr.  Horton.  I  could 
not  speak  from  gladness,  while  tears  of  joy  flowed 
in  showers. 

"Well,  well,  Will!  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again!" 
said  Uncle  Joe,  as  he  came  forward  and  took  my 
frail  hand  in  both  of  his  with  a  warmth  I  shall  never 
forget.  "Here's  a  few  posies  Annie  sent  you,"  he 
continued,  producing  a  neat  little  bouquet  of  violets, 
our  spring  favorites,  "and  she  said  I'd  got  to  bring 
you  home  with  me  in  a  day  or  two.  Don't  shed 
tears  over  such  a  little  matter  as  this.  I  ruther 
thought  you'd  be  kind  o'  tickled  to  see  me,  and  not 
that  I'd  set  you  off  into  paroxysms  of  grief.  Guess 
if  I'd  known  this  I'd  better  stayed  to  home." 

But  his  quaint,  warm  humor  did  not  brighten  me 
up  a  bit.  He  began  on  another  chord  of  my  feel 
ings  :  "Well,  now,  I  know  all  about  it,  my  boy.  I 
was  laid  up  for  quite  some  time  once,  and  you  came 
to  help  me  jest  in  the  nick  o'  time,  so  I  thought  I'd 


108  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

reciprocate  a  little.  You're  weak.  You  was  purty 
badly  bunged  up,  I  reckon,  but  a  few  whiffs  of  our 
mountain  air  will  fetch  the  color  back  to  your  cheeks 
again.  You've  changed  quite  a  bit  since  you  was 
home.  I  guess  the  folks  '11  know  you,  though.  How 
are  you,  anyway?" 

By  this  time  I  had  myself  under  control,  and  could 
answer  like  a  man  rather  than  like  an  hysterical 
schoolgirl.  Two  days  later,  on  the  first  day  of  May, 
just  at  sunset,  I  was  tenderly  assisted  into  the  old, 
familiar  Horton  sitting  room,  this  time  with  showers 
of  caresses  and  not  clouds  of  snowflakes.  How 
restful  the  old  armchair!  How  comforting  Aunt 
Jane's  solid  physique!  How  like  a  May  morn 
ing  was  Annie's  smile!  It  was  well  worth  a  wreck 
to  be  out  of  it  alive  and  into  the  old  home  to 
recuperate. 

The  more  than  two  years  of  my  absence  had 
made  few  changes  about  the  farm.  A  few  more 
gray  hairs  mingled  with  the  brown  and  black  on 
the  heads  of  the  elders  of  the  family.  Annie  was 
now  a  woman.  She  sat  at  my  feet  on  the  familiar 
hassock,  looking  up  into  my  face,  while  I  spun  the 
yarns  of  my  railroad  life.  Her  eyes  no  longer  wore 
the  expression  of  childish  glee;  seriousness,  sym 
pathy,  and  love  beamed  from  them.  The  old 
wooden  clock  struck  ten  before  we  had  thought  of 
bedtime.  Uncle  Joe  had  risen  and  gone  in  his 
stocking  feet  to  wind  the  family  heirloom,  an  in 
fallible  sign  for  retiring.  The  good-nights,  prayers 


Convalescing.  109 

by  the  familiar  bedside,  blissful  slumber,  morning' 
sunlight,  feathered  choir,  and  spring  perfumes 
passed  in  panoramic  swiftness.  It  was  day — home. 
I  was  rested. 

How  frequently  and  easily  conversational  groups 
gathered  in  those  days  of  convalescing !  This  morn 
ing,  while  I  sat  reading  in  an  easy-chair,  Aunt  Jane, 
rolling-pin  in  hand,  appeared  leaning  against  a 
jamb  of  the  door  that  led  to  the  kitchen.  The  lower 
right-hand  corner  of  her  apron,  artistically  and 
carelessly  flung  underside  out,  draped  over  her  left 
hip,  and  a  little  flour  here  and  there  sprinkled  her 
face  and  chubby  arms.  Aunt  Phoebe,  somehow, 
floated  in  from  the  garden  with  flowers.  Annie's 
chamber  work  had  been  speedily  completed.  By 
some  accident  Uncle  Joe  came  in  from  the  barn  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  and  sat  on  the  doorsill  for  fear  of 
soiling  the  carpet  with  his  muddy  boots.  Before 
anyone  realized  time  or  unfinished  tasks  we  all  were 
laughing  together  and  narrating  reminiscences.  A 
kettle  boiling  over  on  the  stove  was  a  bugle  blast  to 
duty.  Aunt  Jane  hurried  to  the  kitchen.  As  her 
spherical  form  disappeared  the  other  members  of 
the  chatting  club  retired  to  their  several  places  of 
labor  as  if  going  through  routine  drill.  I  was  alone 
again. 

The  afternoon  knot  had  its  nucleus  when 
Neighbor  Overfield  spied  me  on  the  front  porch. 
He  quickly  hopped  out  of  his  market  wagon,  left 
his  team  by  the  gate,  and  came  up  the  walk  with, 


110  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

".Waal,  say,  Billy!  this  is  good  fur  sore  eyes  to  see 
you  round  agin.  I  hearn  you  had  a  clus  call. 
You've  got  lots  to  thank  the  good  Lord  fur  yit. 
The  smell  o'  the  old  fields  'ill  tone  ye  up  better'n 
ever  in  a  few  weeks.  How  air  ye,  anyway  ?" 

While  we  conversed  my  friend  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  porch  working  his  foot  in  the  pebbles  that  had 
been  washed  out  by  the  drip  of  the  eaves.  Aunt 
Phoebe's  head  popped  out  of  the  sitting-room  win 
dow  like  a  turtle's  from  its  shell.  Annie  nestled  on 
the  doorsill  behind  me.  Aunt  Jane  just  then  had  to 
pick  some  fresh  lilacs,  and,  with  her  apron  over  her 
head,  lingered  quite  a  spell  within  earshot.  Uncle 
Joe,  coming  up  from  the  cellar  with  a  basket  of  seed 
potatoes,  set  them  down  on  the  hatchway  steps  and, 
of  necessity,  of  course,  passed  through  our  group  in 
order  to  get  his  hoe.  Even  the  hired  man,  suddenly 
taken  with  a  feverish  throat,  left  his  team  at  the 
plow  that  he  might  slake  his  thirst  at  the  well,  a 
rod  from  my  chair. 

"Whoa,  there,  Tom!"  shouted  Mr.  Overfield,  as 
he  jumped  up  and  ran  for  his  team,  which  had  be 
come  uneasy  and  started  for  home.  When  the  jolly 
farmer  had  hopped  over  the  tailboard  of  his  wagon 
and  clambered  to  the  seat  he  shouted  back,  "See  you 
'gin,  Billy,  afore  ye  go  back!  Come  over  an'  pull 
our  latchstring !" 

As  he  disappeared  at  the  bend  of  the  road  I  looked 
for  my  other  auditors.  They  were  not.  I  was  alone 
again  with  verdant  nature  folded  and  festooned  be- 


Convalescing.  Ill 

fore  me.     I  rambled  out  to  the  grove,  back  of  the 
barn,  and  meditated : 

"Where  fields  are  green  once  more  I  tread, 

The  touch  is  restful  to  my  feet; 
The  birds  are  singing  o'er  my  head 

Their  songs  that  never  seemed  more  sweet. 

"Where  fields  are  green  I  walk  once  more 

The  crooked  lane  to  me  so  dear, 
And,  as  the  stone  wall  I  pass  o'er, 

The  murmur  of  the  brook  I  hear. 

"Where  fields  are  green  the  flowers  throw 

Their  sweetness  on  the  balmy  air, 
And  all  above  and  all  below 

Seems  beautiful  beyond  compare. 

"Where  fields  are  green  I  view  the  trees 

In  all  their  majesty  and  worth, 
And  with  their  leaves  they  catch  the  breeze 

And  hand  it  down  to  the  green  earth. 

"Where  fields  are  green  to-day  I  see 

Against  the  sky  the  distant  hills, 
And  health  and  life  flow  back  to  me 

That  rob  me  of  my  petty  ills. 

"And  as  I  gaze  an  Unseen  Power 
My  faith  beholds  o'er  all  the  scene; 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  make  this  hour 
An  endless  day — where  fields  are  green." 


112  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Ragging* 

ILDER'S  purty  chuck,  to-day,  ain't  'e, 
Billy  ?"  said  Truman  Shay,  one  of  our 
brakemen,  while  we  were  making  up 
our  train  in  Bryson  yard.  I  was  then  flagging. 
Phil  Schleaser,  a  small,  stocky,  black-eyed,  cool,  and 
conceited  man,  pulled  the  throttle,  and  Hank 
Gilder,  a  careless,  unprincipled,  too-often-tipsy  fel 
low,  conducted. 

"One  o'  these  days  Schleaser  'ill  read  'im  the  riot 
act  in  a  way  that  'ill  make  'im  think  of  'is  mother-'n- 
law.  You  know  Hank's  been  boozin'  too  freely  of 
late,  an'  on  a  trip  'bout  six  weeks  ago  Phil  gave  'im 
a  jackin'  up  that  fairly  made  'is  hair  stan'.  Hank 
lay  off  a  couple  o'  days  then  on  a  spree  and  has 
been  straight's  a  string  till  last  week.  'Bout  another 
day  'n'  little  Phil  'ill  be  back  in  the  caboose  with 
blood  in  'is  eye.  I  don't  blame  'im  a  bit,  fur  if  any 
thing  should  happen  we'd  all  be  called  up  'fore  the 
ole  man  an'  there'd  haf  to  be  some  lyin'  done  or 
we'd  git  the  'G.  B.'  'Course  the  engineer's  next  in 
authority  an'  ought  to  report  the  conductor,  but  you 
know  Phil's  a  good-hearted  feller  an'  wouldn't  re 
port  Hank  unless  he  got  so's  the  devil  couldn't  live 
with  'im.  He  likes  a  nip  too  well  'imself  to  be  hard 


Flagging.  113 

on  anyone  fur  drinkin'  a  leetle  more'n  'e  should. 
Phil  seldom  drinks  on  duty,  an'  never  shows  liquor 
anyway." 

Toot,  toot!  As  our  train  slowly  moved  by  us 
Shay  continued :  "We'll  want  'o  keep  our  eye  peeled 
to-day,  Billy,  an'  mind  what  I'm  tellin'  ye,  the  head 
an*  tail  of  our  crew  'ill  be  in  a  mix-up  'fore  many 
hours." 

He  caught  the  front  hand  rod  of  the  caboose  at 
the  last  word,  while  I,  after  closing  the  switch  and 
running  along  the  track,  signaled  all  right  and 
jumped  to  the  rear  steps. 

The  conductor  sat  at  his  desk  making  out  the 
train  report.  He  knew  what  he  was  about;  never 
theless,  the  contour  of  a  bottle  appearing  through 
his  coat  boded  a  time,  and  that  not  far  distant,  when 
he  would  not  know.  Truman  winked  at  me. 
Each  understood  what  would  be  expected  from  the 
other.  There  was  no  use  of  reasoning  with  Gilder, 
for  he  would  flare  up  in  a  minute.  Being  sub 
ordinates,  we  thought  a  still  tongue  and  a  cool  head 
the  better  part.  Our  orders  carried  us  only  to  Sandy 
Junction,  where  No.  I  would  pass  us.  The  latter 
was  late,  and  Schleaser,  to  pass  away  time,  strolled 
back  to  the  rear  of  the  train.  When  his  nimble  body 
swung  up  the  steps  the  natural  rocking  of  the  ca 
boose  startled  Gilder  from  his  half-dozing  condition. 
Truman  and  I  sat  on  the  rail  a  couple  of  rods  in  the 
rear.  We  waited  for  results.  The  tramp  of 
Schleaser's  heavy-soled  shoes  across  the  floor  told 


114  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  whole  story,  while  the  sarcastic  "Ah!  ha!" 
snapped  out  like  the  crack  of  a  gun  as  he  opened  the 
rear  door.  It  was  evident  that  the  caboose  was  not 
large  enough  for  him  just  then. 

"See  here,  old  man!"  he  began,  coolly  chewing 
a  sliver  he  had  picked  up  by  the  way,  "this  'ere 
kind  o'  biz  has  gone  on  fur  enough!"  He  spoke 
as  if  addressing  an  audience  of  ten  thousand. 
No  one  in  sight  or  hearing,  however,  mistook  his 
meaning. 

Gilder  began  to  curse  his  engineer  and  en 
deavored  to  rise  from  his  desk.  In  making  the  at 
tempt  his  coat  flapped  back  and  the  quick  eye  of 
Schleaser  caught  sight  of  the  neck  of  the  bottle. 
"Never  mind  'bout  gittin'  up  an'  makin'  yer  bow 
tew  me,  you  mealy-mouthed  bloat  of  a  skin — stay 
right  where  you  be." 

The  last  sentence  came  out  like  a  young  cyclone. 
With  a  gesture  of  his  right  arm  that  swept  the  car 
he  gracefully  picked  the  bottle  from  its  abiding  place 
and  flung  it  out  of  an  open  window  like  a  crack,  base 
ball  pitcher.  Stepping  in  front  of  the  desk,  he 
immediately  got  down  to  business  and  practical 
oratory : 

"Now,  Hank,  you  know  I  ain't  nothin'  aginst 
your  drinkin'  a  lettle  once  in  a  while,  but  tew  git 
down  like  a  hog  an'  carry  a  bottle  on  duty  takes 
nerve.  You  can  run  a  train  when  you're  sober  's 
good  's  any  man  on  the  road,  but  when  you  git  a 
drink  o'  tew  in  you,  you  don't  know  nothin' — ye 


Flagging.  115 

'don't.  I've  put  up  with  this  'ere  sloppin'  over  's 
long  's  I'm  goin'  tew.  I'd  ruther  have  Hank  Gilder 
conduct  fur  me  than  any  man  on  the  division,  but  I 
want  it  strictly  understood,  ah-ha !  that  I  won't  have 
Hank  Swiller  on  my  train  another  trip.  You're 
nothin'  but  an  ass.  You  set  there  like  an  old  hog, 
chuck  full  o'  swill — set  there  now!" 

The  conductor  made  another  attempt  to  rise,  but 
the  flat  hand  of  little  Phil  put  him  into  the  comer  as 
quiet  and  as  meek  as  a  lamb.  "Now,  I'll  tell  ye 
what  I'm  goin'  tew  dew,  an'  I'll  dew  it  tew,  an' 
don't  ye  forgit  it,"  continued  the  engineer.  "You're 
goin'  tew  lay  there,"  pointing  to  the  long  side 
cushions,  "an'  sleep  this  'ere  blubber  off  er  I'll  swat 
ye  over  's  flat  's  a  pancake.  I'll  tend  tew  the  train. 
Don't  you  ever  let  me  ketch  ye  with  another  bottle. 
D'y'  understand?  To-morrer,  'f  you  ain't  sober  's 
a  judge,  you'll  never  take  another  trip  with  me,  nor 
nobody  else,  on  the  ole  C.  O.  &  B.  I've  never  re 
ported  you  yit,  but  I  will.  I'll  dew  it  this  time,  fur 
I've  tol'  you  so,  an'  little  Phil's  word  's  good  's  a 
banknote.  Mind  what  I  say,  ah-ha,  Hank!" 

Dropping  from  the  steps  to  the  ground  as  lightly 
as  a  squirrel,  he  remarked  to"  us  with  his  own 
peculiar  sneer,  "  'Tend  t'  yer  knittin'  this  trip,  boys, 
an'  I  promise  you  there  '11  be  no  more  o'  this  kind 
o'  funny  business,"  and  slowly  swaggered  up  the 
track  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  hat  on  one 
side  of  his  head. 

"Phil  means  business  this  time,   Billy,"   added 


116  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Truman.  "If  Hank  don't  brace  up  right  on  the 
spot  the  jig's  up  with  'im  as  fur  's  railroadin'  's 
concerned." 

Following  our  engineer  to  the  station,  we  learned 
that  No.  i  was  thirty  minutes  late.  That  meant  so 
much  more  lounging.  The  branch  train  soon  came 
in,  and  after  it  had  gone  around  the  Y  was  ready  to 
return  as  soon  as  the  main-line  train  arrived.  Its 
crew  joined  ours.  Getting  into  conversation  with 
the  rear  brakeman,  corresponding  to  my  position  on 
the  coaler — for  you  know  that  "birds  of  a  feather 
flock  together" — I  told  him  something  of  my  life  as 
well  as  of  my  firm  conviction  that  I  had  an  elder 
brother  somewhere  in  the  States,  and  my  opinion 
was  that  he  would  be  a  railroader  too.  My  friend, 
however,  knew  nobody  of  my  name  or  looks  either, 
though  he  promised  to  keep  on  the  lookout  and  put 
me  on  the  trail  if  possible. 

The  long  whistle  from  the  east  announced  the 
approach  of  No.  i,  and  we  all  separated  to  our  sev 
eral  posts  of  duty.  The  orders  that  Schleaser 
handed  me  as  he  hustled  to  his  engine  were — "Meet 
2  at  Collins  and  get  further  orders."  Everything 
boomed  along  our  division.  The  double  track  was 
being  laid  and  before  snow  flew  we  hoped  to  be  run 
ning  without  the  bother  of  so  many  orders. 

Our  conductor  lay  sound  asleep,  scarcely  moving 
all  the  way  to  Collins.  There  he  was  left  alone  for 
some  time  while  I  was  at  the  office,  and  Shay  helped 
cut  out  a  crippled  jimmy  together  with  a  half  dozen 


Flagging.  117 

others  that  we  could  not  haul  up  the  grade;  we 
could  not  get  a  pusher. 

No  sooner  were  we  on  our  way  up  the  mountain 
than  it  was  evident  that  Gilder  had  been  at  work 
as  well  as  the  rest  of  us.  The  devil  always  has  his 
traps  at  the  proper  place  to  catch  his  victims.  Less 
than  four  rods  from  the  caboose  while  the  train 
stood  on  the  siding  was  a  saloon,  and  thither  Gilder, 
who  had  feigned  sleep,  slyly  stole  during  our  ab 
sence  and  obtained  another  bottle.  This  half-empty 
telltale  at  intervals,  caused  by  the  jar  of  the  train, 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  inside  coat  pocket  like  the 
head  of  a  serpent  dancing  in  demoniac  glee.  It  was 
certain  now  that  the  pretender  would  soon  be  a  real 
slumberer,  and  that  the  sleep  of  a  brute.  At  the 
Summit  twenty-four  cars  were  added  to  our  train, 
and  on  we  sped  down  the  long  grade.  At  Rio  station 
I  was  left  with  a  flag  to  get  to  Coalville  as  best  I 
could,  for  Schleaser  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  his  train 
out  of  the  way  of  No.  3,  due  in  fifteen  minutes.  It 
was  but  twelve  miles  to  our  destination,  and  with  a 
dozen  minutes'  start  they  were  able  to  clear  the  track 
just  as  I  stepped  off  No.  3  at  Coalville.  Hastening 
to  the  yard  to  help  put  away  the  train,  I  found  them 
all  busy  except  Gilder,  who  had  departed. 

"Now,  men,"  said  Schleaser,  with  a  cock  of  one 
eye,  gently  shoving  his  greasy  hat  to  one  side  of  his 
head  while  he  scratched  the  other,  and  chewing  the 
ever-present  toothpick,  "the  jig's  up  with  Gilder  's 
fur  's  I'm  concerned !" 


US  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"Here  too!"  answered  Shay. 

"Ah-h!"  continued  the  engineer  with  a  snap  of 
his  voice  like  the  pop  of  his  engine  on  a  frosty  morn 
ing,  "jest  min'  what  I  tell  you.  This  's  his  last  trip 
with  Phil  Schleaser.  'F  'e  comes  round  in  the 
mornin' — yes,  'f  'e  comes  round  in  the  mornin'  tew 
go  back  with  us — all  well  an'  good — if  not — yes,  if 
not,  we  know  the  way  home.  I  guess  ole  137  ken 
hunt  her  way  home  ef  little  Phil's  at  the  throttle  an' 
Jake,  here,  flings  the  scoop — Ah-h,  boys!" 

"That's  business,"  we  all  chimed  in  concert. 

"Ah-h!  That's  the  way  I  like  tew  hear  ye  talk 
it.  Lay  low.  Say  nothin'  tew  nobody.  You, 
Billy,  take  in  Hank's  reports  to-night.  An'  tew- 
morrer,  when  we  git  into  Bryson,  we'll  see  what 
the  ole  man  ken  dew  fur  us.  Mind  now!"  Thus 
we  separated. 

In  the  morning  our  conductor  was  on  hand  at  the 
usual  time,  drunk  enough  to  be  mean  and  sober 
enough  to  know  his  authority.  He  was  a  larger  and 
stronger  man  than  his  engineer,  yet  he  was  afraid 
of  the  little  man,  especially  when  Schleaser  was  in 
the  right  and  a  little  angered.  We  had  considerable 
shifting  to  do  to  make  up  our  train.  Gilder  was 
out  doing  his  best  to  help.  Half  the  time  his  signals 
were  wrong,  and  all  the  while  they  were  given  with 
nervous  rapidity,  evidencing  displeasure  at  the  man 
in  the  cab.  He  grew  worse.  After  he  had  caused 
portions  of  the  train  to  bump  together  with  such 
force  as  to  spill  several  tons  of  coal,  and  once  nearly 


Flagging.  119 

catching  Shay  between  the  bumpers  while  he  was 
arranging  a  coupling  pin,  Schleaser  could  wait  no 
longer.  Calling  his  fireman  to  handle  the  engine, 
he  dropped  from  the  cab  like  a  giant  and  rapidly 
approached  his  conductor.  His  face  naturally  quite 
dark,  became  a  thundercloud.  His  eyes  shot  flames 
of  fire.  Gilder  was  checking  off  his  waybills  at  the 
moment  and  did  not  notice  the  approach  of  his 
enemy.  Finishing  the  work,  he  had  just  raised  his 
hand  to  signal  "Go  ahead"  when  the  bills  were 
snatched  from  his  hands  as  if  by  magic  and  a  grimy 
hand  across  his  ear  sprawled  him  on  the  ground. 
The  oaths  rolled  from  his  lips  in  torrents.  He 
scrambled  near  to  a  coupling  pin,  seized  it,  and  with 
a  terrible  oath  and  mortal  threat  faced  his  an 
tagonist.  The  very  sight  chilled  him. 

The  engineer's  countenance  forbode  no  compro 
mise.  His  body  was  erect  and  under  perfect  con 
trol.  "Drap  that,  ye  sot!" — shot  out  between  his 
teeth.  The  iron  missile  fell.  "Git!"  he  hissed, 
motioning  toward  the  caboose.  The  conductor 
turned  and  went.  As  he  turned  he  was  uncere 
moniously  assisted  by  the  broad-soled  shoe  of 
Schleaser's  right  foot,  and  "Git!"  again  fell  on  his 
ears.  For  ten  car-lengths  "Git"  and  shoe  alternated 
with  telling  effect.  When  the  conductor  resented, 
his  pace  was  quickened  by  a  more  vigorous 
use  of  leather  suasion.  The  last  application  was  ad 
ministered  as  the  patient  entered  the  caboose  door, 
which  the  satisfied  engine-driver  shut  with  a  bang", 


120  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

exclaiming,  "Stay  there,  now,  till  I  tell  you  tew 
git  out!" 

Pulling  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  as  was  his 
wont,  he  returned  to  the  locomotive.  We  smiled  as 
he  passed  us.  Our  answer  was  a  twinkling  roll  of 
his  dark  eyes  toward  us,  a  slight  smile  nestling  in 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  the  expression, 
"Ah-h!" 

That  was  the  last  trip  of  Henry  Gilder  on  the 
C.  O.  &  B.  He  emptied  his  bottle  before  we  pulled 
out  of  the  yard,  fell  bestially  asleep,  and  remained 
so  all  the  way  home.  There  he  was  reported  and 
discharged. 

I  pitied  the  poor  fellow  when  I  saw  him  stagger 
away  that  evening  into  a  saloon.  My  heart  ached. 
I  wanted  to  tell  it  all  to  somebody.  I  determined  to 
spend  the  evening  with  Ot  Neely.  My  friend  was  at 
home  and  full  of  good  cheer.  After  relating  the 
incidents  of  the  last  trip  I  asked  his  opinion  as  to 
the  justice  of  Schleaser  in  his  treatment  of  the 
drinking  conductor.  His  answer  came  to  me  like  a 
revelation,  and  opened  my  eyes  to  the  liquor  traffic 
as  never  before. 

"Do  you  know,  Billy,"  said  he,  laying  his  warm 
hand  on  my  knee,  "that  your  engineer  is  as  deep  in 
the  mud  as  your  conductor  is  in  the  mire,  and  in  my 
estimation,  deeper?  He  drinks  himself.  Not  only 
that,  but  he  let  Gilder  drink,  knowing  all  the  while 
that  the  conductor  did  not  have  the  self-control  he 
himself  had.  Gilder  used  to  conduct  for  me.  At  the 


Flagging.  121 

start  I  told  him  he  must  not  touch  a  drop,  if  he  did  I 
would  report  him.  He  kept  perfectly  straight.  We 
got  along  first-rate,  and  I  wanted  him  to  remain 
with  me,  but  he  wouldn't.  Why?  Simply  because 
if  he  went  with  Schleaser  he  could  drink;  and  drink 
he  has.  Occasionally  he  went  too  far,  and,  after  one 
of  Schleaser's  'blows/  would  brace  up  for  quite  a 
spell.  Five  years  of  such  railroading  have  put  him 
where  he  is.  And  who's  the  more  to  blame?" 

"You  know  your  engineer  lives  up  to  Sandy  Junc 
tion,  don't  you?  You  know  that  saloon  about  ten 
rods  this  side  of  the  station?  It's  the  most  hellish 
mantrap  on  the  road.  There  are  three  other  such 
places  in  that  little  village  of  not  more'n  five  hundred 
inhabitants.  The  only  excuse  for  that  hole  is  on  the 
devil's  side.  Just  let  me  tell  you  something,  my 
young  friend,  by  way  of  an  eye-opener  and  that 
which  I  know  to  be  a  fact."  The  speaker  was  warm 
ing  up  to  his  subject. 

"I  don't  talk  about  my  neighbors  until  I  have  first 
talked  to  them;  nor  do  I  blow  off  a  lot  of  stuff 
I  know  nothing  about.  The  Junction  is  iin  the 
county  of  which  Bryson  is  the  county  seat.  A  year 
ago  last  winter,  at  the  February  term,  when  the 
court  was  considering  remonstrances  against  grant 
ing  licenses  to  certain  saloons,  not  being  on  duty,  I 
dropped  into  the  court  room  to  see  what  was  going 
on.  The  first  case  called  up  was  that  of  Pat  Moyer, 
who  runs  the  junction  house.  He's  nothing  but  a 
bloat,  can  scarcely  write  his  own  name,  and  doesn't 


122  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

pretend  to  do  anything  but  sell  grog.  THe  re 
monstrance  had  about  fifty  names  of  respectable 
people  on  it,  and  the  application  was  signed  by 
twelve  men,  among  them  Philip  Schleaser.  This  I 
know,  for  I  saw  the  papers.  The  Methodist  preacher 
there  was  pushing  the  case;  and  two  or  three  good 
men  backed  him.  Several  witnesses  had  been  called 
to  prove  that  Moyer  was  not  a  man  of  good  moral 
character.  You  know  that  those  words  are  on  every 
application  for  license  in  our  commonwealth.  The 
plaintiff  proved  his  illegal  selling,  and  had  a  minor 
on  the  stand,  who  took  oath  that  he  had  bought  drink 
there.  Among  the  witnesses  for  the  defense  came 
Schleaser,  who  swore  that  there  was  a  necessity  for 
the  saloon,  the  burden  of  his  testimony  being  that  a 
cattle  man  on  his  train  one  night  got  off  and  got  a 
lunch  there,  the  upshot  of  which  was  that  if  the  place 
was  not  there  cattlemen  would  go  hungry.  Do  you 
know  that  the  old  snoozer  got  his  license?"  cried 
Neely,  with  warmth,  as  he  turned  his  chair  and 
slapped  me  on  the  knee  with  a  force  that  made 
me  wince. 

"I've  been  at  the  Junction  all  hours  of  night  and 
day  and  never  yet  saw  a  drover  in  Moyer's  for  lunch. 
Have  tried  to  get  one  myself  several  times  and  have 
never  succeeded.  I  have  it,  too,  on  good  authority 
that  he  has  no  more  beds  in  the  house  than  will  ac 
commodate  his  own  family.  In  fact,  he  makes  no 
pretense  of  keeping  a  house  for  travelers.  He  has 
neither  hotel  nor  restaurant  accommodations,  only 


Flagging,  123 

a  plain,  dirty  grogshop.  Schleaser  often  visits  the 
place,  and  from  my  cab  I  have  many  times  seen  him 
and  Gilder  in  there  drinking  together.  Phil  is  per 
fectly  safe  on  his  engine,  and  always  as  cool  as  a 
cucumber,  and  yet  Hank's  just  as  good  a  conductor 
as  Phil  is  an  engineer.  Both  like  whisky  equally 
well,  but  where  one  is  weak  the  other  is  strong,  and 
vice  versa.  Which  is  the  better?" 

I  told  this  whole  story  to  Phil,  and  with  consid 
erable  heat.  The  only  satisfaction  received  was  a 
cool  reminder  that  I  had  better  mind  my  own  P's 
and  Q's,  and  a  guess  that  he  could  find  counsel  when 
he  needed  it. 

"The  same  thing  as  regards  licenses,  practically, 
happens  here  in  Bryson  every  year.  Once  in  a  while 
we  win,  twice  in  a  while  we  lose.  You  know  Lan- 
ford,  our  station  agent,  and  a  member  of  our 
church?  Last  year  I  went  round  for  him  to  sign  a 
remonstrance  against  opening  that  gin  mill  down  on 
the  corner  of  Maple  and  Main.  He  said  he  daren't 
do  it.  He  was  the  last  man  I  expected  to  refuse, 
and  I  told  him  so.  'I  s'pose  you  know,  Ot,'  says  he, 
'that  the  whisky  freight  bill  here  every  month  is 
nearly  as  much  as  it  costs  to  run  all  the  churches  in 
town.  That  is  business  for  the  company.  I  am 
watched,  and  should  my  name  go  on  that  remon 
strance  the  brewers'  association,  or  the  saloonists, 
or  whatever  you  may  call  them,  would  be  on  my; 
track.  Then  if  the  company  did  not  remove  me  the 
whisky  would  come  over  the  T.  &  C.  road  and  our 


124  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

company  would  be  the  losers.  You  know  they'd 
rather  lose  me  than  that  trade.'  It  is  evident  that 
the  company  caters  to  the  devil. 

"It  don't  seem  possible,  Billy,  but  Jackson,  the 
agent  at  the  Junction,  told  me  the  same  thing.  I 
have  no  reason  to  think  otherwise.  The  whole  rum 
traffic  is  enough  to  make  the  imps  of  darkness  blush 
with  shame  and  angels  weep  and  hide  their  faces. 
Phil's  as  good  a  railroader  as  we've  got,  but  his 
practices  keep  him  from  a  passenger  run.  The  com 
pany  knows  him.  He's  perfectly  trustworthy,  yet 
they're  afraid  some  day  he'll  get  more  steam  in  his 
head  than  in  his  locomotive. 

"You  see,  as  long  's  you  do  as  he  does  it's  all 
right,  but  just  cross  him  sometime.  Keep  your  eye 
skinned,  Billy,  and  report  to  me  in  a  month  what 
you've  seen.  I  tell  you  what,  my  boy,"  and  his  face 
showed  deepest  emotion,  "it's  an  awful  business, 
and  my  soul  longs  for  the  day  when  all  men  shall 
drink  the  water  from  the  fountain  of  life  and  not 
swill  away  at  the  devil's  punch  bowl.  O  yes,  there's 
lots  of  good  Christians  yet,  and  railroaders  too. 
Thank  God,  there  are  some  men  left.  Guess  it's 
'bout  bedtime,  and  to-morrow's  my  long  day." 

I  had  already  risen  and  opened  the  door.  With  a 
cheery  "good-night"  I  stepped  into  the  darkness. 
Passing  along  a  dark  alley,  I  started  at  a  gurgling 
mutter,  as  from  a  delirious  sleeper.  Striking  a 
match  and  following  the  sound,  the  face  of  Hank 
Gilder  in  a  drunken  sleep  met  my  eyes.  The  night 


Flagging.  125 

was  warm.  The  conductor's  tent  was  heaven's  star 
lit  blue;  his  bed,  God's  green  sward.  I  left  him  to 
sleep  off  his  potions.  Poor  fellow !  Moderation  was 
not  one  of  his  virtues.  His  nature  was  like  a  pile  of 
pine  shaving;  his  engineer's,  a  heap  of  chaff.  The 
one  burns  quickly,  the  other  smolders.  The  chaff 
burns,  nevertheless,  and  its  odors  are  obnoxious  to 
the  whole  community.  It  flames,  too,  at  every  pass 
ing  breeze,  and  often  in  the  nighttime.  It  is  most 
dangerous  when  it  is  considered  extinguished.  If 
ever  a  snake  is  the  vicegerent  of  the  devil  it  is  the 
viper  called  "Moderation,"  nestling  in  the  soul  of  a 
moderate  drinker. 


126  On  the  Mountain  Division.] 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
The  Strike* 

CAB!  SCAB!"  A  hundred  voices  shouted 
it  in  derision!  The  scene  was  heartrend- 
ing.  In  a  cut  on  a  curve  of  the  railroad, 
just  east  of  the  little  village  of  Carton  and  three 
miles  from  Bryson,  was  a  wreck.  The  employees 
of  the  C.  O.  &  B.  had  been  on  strike  for  a  month. 
A  few  trains  were  running.  None,  however,  was  on 
schedule  time.  The  crews  were  nonunion  men,  un 
acquainted  with  the  road  and  many  of  them  inex 
perienced  in  railroading.  A  freight  train  had 
stopped  at  the  station  on  the  west-bound  track  (we 
were  double-tracked  then),  with  its  caboose  in  a 
rock  cut,  out  of  sight  for  a  following  engineer  ex 
cept  for  a  few  rods.  However,  a  semaphore  down 
at  the  end  of  the  straight  line  was  controlled  from  a 
tower  from  which  the  station,  cut,  and  straight  line 
were  visible.  The  board  was  up.  A  pusher  with  a 
scab  engineer  approached.  He  neither  whistled  nor 
heeded  the  board,  but  went  into  the  rear  of  the 
motionless  train  at  full  speed.  Two  men  in  the 
caboose  escaped,  the  third  was  pinioned.  The  stove 
was  overturned  and  the  debris  almost  immediately 
ignited.  It  was  a  chill  November  day,  and  in  com 
pany  with  others  I  walked  up  to  see  the  wreck. 


The  Strike.  127 

When  we  arrived  the  engine  that  caused  the  crash 
had  been  hauled  back  out  of  the  fire  and  the  unin 
jured  cars  ahead  removed.  Only  three  empty  box 
cars  and  the  caboose  burned.  In  the  midst  of  the 
flames,  in  plain  sight,  the  body  of  the  scab  brake- 
man  roasted.  The  tracks  were  controlled  by  a  score 
of  policemen,  and  behind  them,  on  the  heights  of 
the  cut,  gathered  a  hundred  or  more  lookers-on, 
among  them  many  employees  of  the  T.  &  C.  road, 
which  ran  just  below.  These  employees  had  started 
the  cry  of  "Scab!"  and  men,  women,  and  children 
were  not  slow  to  join.  The  gathered  scab  trainmen 
presented  a  pitiable  sight;  the  green,  shivering 
policemen,  ridiculous;  the  destruction  of  property, 
wasteful ;  the  burning  of  human  flesh,  horrible ;  and 
the  shouting  of  a  frenzied  mob,  positively  fiendish. 

Strikes  have  resulted  advantageously  to  both  em 
ployed  and  employer.  Even  then  compromise  would 
have  been  better.  The  contending  parties  are  neces 
sary  to  each  other's  existence ;  the  contention  is  not. 
Both  are  in  the  same  boat,  and  how  foolish  for  either 
party  to  scuttle  the  craft  expecting  the  other  man 
only  to  get  the  ducking.  How  much  the  world 
needs  the  Brotherhood  of  Jesus  Christ  that  accepts 
both  labor  and  capital.  That  would  be  better  than 
arbitration.  Capital  would  have  the  interest  of 
labor  at  heart  and  vice  versa.  In  fact,  no  capital  and 
labor  would  exist.  The  middle  wall  and  partition 
would  be  down  and  all  be  one  in  Jesus  Christ. 

I  am  a  brotherhood  man.    The  right  to  quit  is 


128  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

mine,  provided  the  work,  wages,  or  bosses,  do  not 
suit  me.  If  my  labor  is  not  satisfactory  to  my  em 
ployer  he  has  the  right  to  discharge  me  without 
asking  the  privilege  of  my  comrades.  Hot-headed 
and  heartless  agitators  cause  more  trouble  than  the 
actual  laborers  and  capitalists.  To  call  a  strike 
when  one  of  the  specified  grievances  advanced  was 
that  the  laundry  of  the  company  went  to  a  poor,  re 
spectable  widow,  instead  of  to  a  union  laundryman, 
is  contemptible;  yet  such  has  been  done,  and  that, 
too,  when  the  company  had  been  unusually  partial 
to  its  employees. 

Not  long  ago  our  night  operator  at  Netherton  was 
'discharged  for  negligence.  Being  a  member  of  the 
telegraphers'  brotherhood  and  a  ready  talker,  he 
was  tendered  the  position  of  traveling  agitator,  or 
something  to  that  effect.  The  order  may  not  have 
known  their  man,  but  that  is  no  excuse.  They 
should  have  investigated  his  case  and  meted  out  to 
him  his  deserts — namely,  expulsion. 

Engineer  Simon  Agitus,  who  lost  a  leg  in  a  wreck 
in  '94,  was  a  good  railroader,  an  honest  man,  and, 
unfortunately,  a  glib  speaker.  He  was  assigned  a 
brotherhood  office.  Acute  of  perception,  he  saw 
every  possible  error  in  the  wage  and  time  scales. 
Having  an  excellent  opinion  of  himself,  he  ignored 
counsel.  His  fault  was  a  vivid  imagination,  coupled 
with  a  persuasive  tongue  that  wrought  evil.  He  re 
minded  me  of  an  old  shingle  weaver  I  once  knew, 
who  told  several  huge  yarns  in  his  youth  and  in  old 


The  Strike.  129 

age  kept  telling  them,  until,  when  I  knew  him,  he 
actually  believed  them  to  be  true.  Agitus  meant 
fairness,  but  his  petty  grievances,  fused  in  an  en 
thusiastic  temperament,  became  enormous  economic 
evils,  and  his  genial  persuasion  carried  his  auditors 
with  him.  Our  losing  strike  of  '95  grew  largely  out 
of  the  influence  of  that  well-meaning  but  misguided 
man. 

On  the  other  hand,  Superintendent  Stubornis", 
when  approached  by  a  committee  from  the  Order  of 
Railroad  Trainmen,  requesting,  as  fast  as  con 
venient,  to  put  in  the  Gould  coupler,  in  place  of  the 
link  and  pin  and  the  Jenny  coupler,  flashed  up  and 
replied :  "We'll  attend  to  our  rolling  stock  and  make 
improvements  as  we  see  fit.  Remember,  our  equip 
ment  is  under  our  own  management.  Good-day!" 
After  discharging  his  bile  he  turned  to  his  desk. 

What  the  superintendent  said  was  true  and  to  the 
point,  but  unwise.  Instead  of  leading  his  employees 
he  tyrannizes  over  them.  If  he  had  hurled  his 
heart  (if  he  had  one)  at  them,  in  place  of  has 
acrimonious  authority,  the  results  to  all  concerned 
would  have  been  far  otherwise. 

"If  each  man  in  his  measure 

Would  do  a  brother's  part 
To  cast  a  ray  of  sunlight 

Into  a  brother's  heart, 
How  changed  would  be  our  country, 

How  changed  would  be  our  poor ! 
And  then  might  Christian  nations 

Deserve  the  name  once  more." 


130  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Arriving  home  from  the  wreck  at  Carton,  heart 
ache  seized  me.  I  withdrew  to  my  room  at  an  early 
hour.  When  I  blew  out  the  light  there  appeared  an 
unusual  gleam  on  the  window  shade.  I  paid  no 
attention  to  it,  however,  and  closed  my  eyes  to  sleep. 
Scarcely  had  I  done  so  when  a  dozen  locomotive 
whistles  from  the  yard  and  roundhouse,  several  other 
whistles  from  the  different  manufactories,  the  fire 
gong,  and  church  bells  sounded  a  deafening  alarm. 
Mingled  with  these  were  the  cries  and  shouts  of 
human  voices.  Springing  from  my  bed  and  glanc 
ing  in  the  direction  of  the  company's  yard,  I  saw 
lurid  flames  leaping  and  volumes  of  smoke  rolling 
toward  the  clouded  heavens.  Hastily  dressing,  it 
took  me  but  a  moment  to  be  at  the  place  of  destruc 
tion.  There  the  hellish  work  of  a  riot  appeared,  a 
violent  mob  run  mad.  Strike  sympathizers  with  a 
few  agitating  strikers  had  fired  the  company's  prop 
erty.  Officials  with  scab  workmen  attempted  to 
move  the  unharmed  cars  away  from  the  burning 
ones  and  run  the  engines  out  of  the  burning  round 
house.  The  mob  threw  the  switches,  broke  the 
switch  bars,  pulled  the  coupling  pins  and  hurled 
them  away  or  through  the  cab  windows,  and 
crowded  around  the  turntable  and  blocked  the  re 
moval  of  the  locomotives.  A  hundred  policemen 
were  ordered  from  adjoining  cities.  The  strikers 
cut  the  telegraph  wires  and,  out  of  town,  tore  up 
the  track,  thus  preventing  the  approach  of  aid.  The 
howling,  yelling  rioters  kept  on  with  their  de- 


The  Strike.  131 

moniacal  ravages.  They  gutted  loaded  box  cars, 
stole  the  contents,  and  burned  what  was  left.  A 
dozen  men  were  killed.  The  sight  of  blood  acted 
upon  the  others  much  as  it  does  upon  a  mad  lion. 
Scores  were  wounded.  Their  cries  and  groans 
mingled  with  the  curses  and  howls  of  the  living, 
who  danced  in  impish  glee  around  the  smoking 
ruins.  The  fire  had  now  begun  to  spread  to  private 
property ;  the  very  city  was  threatened  with  destruc 
tion,  yet  the  mob  howled  and  gloated. 

Reason  had  gone.  The  T.  &  C.  road  had  been 
forgotten.  Shortly  after  midnight  the  blast  of  a 
bugle,  clear  and  shrill,  broke  on  the  night  air.  Com 
panies  B  and  C  of  the  4th  State  militia  appeared, 
their  blue  front  advancing  down  the  street.  Their 
bayonets  flashed  in  the  lurid  light.  A  fiendish  yell 
greeted  them,  followed  by  a  show  of  resistance. 
Several  shots  resounded,  and  two  or  three  bluecoats 
fell  out  of  the  ranks.  The  gaps  closed.  The  cold 
steel  came  on.  There  was  nothing  for  the  mob  to 
do  but  disperse.  The  militia  picketed  the  company's 
property,  got  out  the  fire-engines,  extinguished  the 
flames,  and  restored  quiet.  The  ruins  were  appall 
ing.  I  had  seen  enough  of  mob  rule. 

At  nine-thirty-two  that  morning  I  took  train  6  on 
the  T.  &  C.,  and  at  one-fifteen  stepped  off  the  train 
within  six  miles  of  Summerfield.  Good  old  neigh 
bor  Brown  was  the  first  person  I  saw.  He  greeted 
me  warmly.  "How  air  ye,  Barson  ?  S'pose  you're 
bound  for  Uncle  Joe's,  ain't  ye?  If  you'll  wait  a 


132  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

few  minutes  you  can  ride  up  with  me,  unless  you 
have  some  better  conveyance." 

I  thanked  him  heartily  and  accepted  the  cordial 
invitation.  It  was  a  raw  November  day.  With  an 
open  market  wagon  nearly  full  of  pea  coal,  a  steep 
mountain  road,  a  slow  team,  and  a  slower  driver, 
we  did  not  outstrip  the  wind.  However,  before  6 
o'clock  "the  light  in  the  window"  flickered  through 
the  lilac  bush  into  our  faces.  Another  minute  and 
my  cold  fingers  knocked  on  the  door.  What  a 
welcome ! 

"There  are  no  friends  like  the  old  friends,  who  have  shared 

our  morning  days, 

No  greeting  like  their  welcome,  no  homage  like  their  praise : 
Vain  is  the  scentless  sunflower,  with  gaudy  crown  of  gold ; 
But  friendship  is  the  breathing  rose,  with  sweet  in  every  fold." 


Thanksgiving.  133 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
Thanksgiving-. 

"The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Ifc      ' 

"Every  pine,  and  fir,  and  hemlock 

Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm  tree 

Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl." 

IT  was  a  genuine,  old-fashioned  Thanksgiving 
Day.  The  night  before  a  foot  of  snow  had 
smoothed  out  all  the  unevenness  on  the  surface 
of  the  ground.  The  grass  roots  lay  snugly  tucked 
under  the  coverlet  of  white.  Looking  through  the 
leafless  trees  from  the  east  the  air  appeared  filled 
with  a  network  of  floating  coral.  Against  the  blue 
background  of  ether  every  limb  and  branch  was 
traced  in  ermine  and  gilded  with  golden  shafts  of 
the  morning  sun.  Two  hours  after  sunrise  a  gentle 
breeze  shook  the  downy  crystals  into  midair,  there 
to  vanish  into  mist.  Or,  perchance,  large  masses 
of  snow,  like  tufts  of  wool,  floated  earthward  as 
easily  as  a  flying  squirrel  and  sank  with  a  spat  into 
their  feather  bed,  there  to  sleep  until  awakened  in 
another  existence.  Above,  all  was  blue. 


134  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

The  earth  was  as  trackless  as  the  sea.  The  well- 
beaten  paths  had  disappeared;  the  highway 
vanished.  The  gate  and  bar  posts  were  floating 
buoys,  outlining  the  course  by  which  to  steer  from 
the  house  to  the  barn.  The  eaves  of  the  porch  hung 
fretted  with  ocean  foam,  some  of  which  had  carpeted 
the  outer  edge  of  the  floor.  How  fresh  was  the  air ! 
How  beautifully  God  had  covered  the  faults  and 
shadows  of  earth !  His  work  alone  endured.  Sub 
limity  reigned.  A  chicadee  floated  into  the  tall  pear 
tree  rippling  out  its  song. 

Sleigh  bells  rang  out  merrily  on  the  morning  air. 
Jumpers,  bobs,  and  swell-bodies  glided  along,  their 
occupants  bound,  some  homeward  to  father  and 
mother,  some  to  homes  of  friends,  some  churchward, 
all  bent  on  pleasure  and  Thanksgiving.  Uncle  Joe, 
Aunt  Jane,  Annie,  and  I  bundled  into  the  old  red- 
boxed,  two-seated  sleigh  and  joined  the  churchgoers, 
leaving  behind  Aunt  Phoebe  to  stuff  and  baste  our 
Thanksgiving  turkey. 

When  I  entered  the  church  the  feeling  excited 
turned  back  the  dial  of  my  life  a  half  dozen  years. 
Familiar  scenes  delighted  me.  Friendly  voices 
greeted  me.  A  group  of  gentle-hearted  rustics  ex 
changed  salutations  around  each  of  the  cheering, 
glowing,  wood-burning  stoves.  One  by  one  they 
dropped  out  of  the  circle  into  the  family  pew,  while 
their  places  were  filled  with  newcomers.  The 
stamping  of  feet  and  sweeping  of  snow  in  the 
yestibule  grew  less  frequent,  the  happy  hum  of 


Thanksgiving.  135 

voices  hushed.     The  minister  broke  the  silence  by 
reading : 

"Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise, 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days ! 
Bounteous  Source  of  every  joy, 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ." 

The  congregation  sang  lustily,  making  a  "joyful 
noise  unto  the  Lord."  A  hundred  hearty  voices  re 
peated,  "Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and  all  that  is 
within  me,  bless  his  holy  name."  The  sermon,  the 
dinner,  the  chat  by  the  fireside,  passed  like  a  blissful 
dream. 

Night  came  on  apace.  I  sat  in  the  old,  calico- 
covered  rocker  with  my  back  to  the  fire  and  my  face 
toward  the  western  window.  The  mountains  slept 
in  the  distance,  cold  and  white.  The  blazing  sun 
rolled  in  sections  behind  the  treetops.  The  low 
eaves  hung  above  the  window,  serrated  with  icicles, 
from  whose  needle-points  the  water  had  ceased  to 
drip  and  through  the  crystal  prisms  the  golden 
sunlight  played.  The  color  faded  from  the  pendant 
ice.  I  glanced  at  the  mountains.  The  sun  had  said 
"good-night."  The  horizon  gleamed  a  glorious 
crimson.  Amber  and  pink  flitted,  exchanged  places, 
and  faded  away.  A  few  floating  clouds  rested  near 
the  horizon  like  ruby  ships. 

"Deeper,  deeper  grows  the  shadow, 
Paler,  now,  the  glowing  west" 

Steely-blue  chased  away  the  more  gorgeous  colors. 


136  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Purple  followed,  and  with  a  smile  Venus  peeped 
from  her  hiding  place.    The  picture  was  complete. 

"Day  had  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars." 

The  firelight  had  already  dyed  the  inner  side  of 
the  icicles  and  window  panes.  I  turned  to  face  its 
ruddy  glow  and  the  happy  faces  of  home.  Annie, 
silent  and  alone,  sat  meditating  with  her  feet  resting 
on  a  hassock.  In  the  gloaming  I  drew  my  chair  to 
her  side  and  took  her  hand  in  mine. 

"Give  me  a  quiet  little  spot 

That  I  may  hold  as  mine, 
Which  love  may  have  as  constant  tryst, 

And  hallow  as  its  shrine; 
With  one  dear  heart  to  make  my  home — 

Our  hearts  to  beat  as  one ; 
Then  let  the  giddy,  thoughtless  world 

Its  course  of  fashion  run." 

Our  eyes  met.  The  firelight  glow  on  Annie's 
cheek  was  augmented  by  the  inner  flush.  We  arose 
without  a  word.  I  drew  her  to  my  breast.  Her 
head  fell  upon  my  shoulder.  Each  read  the  sequel 
in  the  other's  eyes;  yet  my  voice  found  utterance: 
"Annie,  you  are  mine  forever,  aren't  you?"  A 
moment  of  silence  followed.  "Yes,  dear!" 

"When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasures  are  past— 
For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  a  dove — 

The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 
Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love," 


Thanksgiving.  137 

We  ratified  the  covenant  and  fused  our  hearts  at 
the  burning  altar  of  Cupid. 

The  magic  spell  departed  when  the  doorlatch  rat 
tled,  but  we  stood  our  ground  until  Aunt  Jane 
lighted  the  lamp,  at  the  same  time  remarking, 
"Guess  we  need  a  light  by  the  looks  o'  things !" 

After  the  room  became  illuminated  Uncle  Joe 
stood  bewildered,  either  surprised  at  our  position  or 
intoxicated  by  the  prevailing  celestial  atmosphere. 
He  regained  consciousness  when  his  better  half 
locked  her  plump  arm  in  his  and  cooed  in  his  ear, 
"Don't  you  remember  when  you  was  young,  Joe?" 

Now  came  my  turn.  Dropping  my  arm  and  tak 
ing  Annie  by  the  hand,  with  heartless  apology  and 
bashful  petition,  I  informed  them  of  what  had  just 
happened,  the  import  of  which  the  more  observing 
housewife  had  already  divined.  Eyes  grew  moist. 
For  an  age  I  seemed  alone,  while  loving  parents 
drew  their  only  child  to  their  hearts.  We  received 
congratulations.  The  mingling  love  and  sorrow 
filled  each  heart  with  a  confidence  and  joy  known 
only  to  those  who  are  pure  in  heart  and  love.  It 
was  a  sacred  hour. 

The  family  altar  that  night  bore  heavenward  an 
unusual  sweet  savor  of  Thanksgiving.  The  paternal 
prayer  was  suppressed  and  pathetic.  The  father  of 
earth  clasped  hands  with  the  Father  of  heaven.  The 
only  daughter  of  that  godly  home  was  consigned 
to  my  care,  while  the  God  of  heaven  witnessed  to 
the  consecrated  covenant.  Wealth  and  position 


138  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

were  not  so  much  as  thought  of.  How  many  times 
that  prayer  has  restrained  me,  no  one  can  tell.  It 
has  been  worth  a  world  of  wealth  and  an  army  of 
servants.  Would  that  all  betrothals  were  of  the 
soul! 


Long  Hours.  139 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
Long  Hours* 

"TJELLO,  Billy!  Give  me  yer  paw."  The 
familiar  voice  of  Phil  Schleaser  greeted 

•*•  •*•  me  and  his  hand  grasped  mine  with  a 
warm  grip.  I  had  just  stepped  to  the  platform  at 
Sandy  Junction  from  a  special  train.  It  was  return 
ing  with  some  railroad  and  government  officials, 
who  were  on  a  trip  of  pleasure  and  inspection.  We 
were  carrying  signals  and  running  first  section  of 
No.  I,  for  which  my  old  engineer  waited  to  take 
him  to  his  work  at  Bryson,  the  division  terminus. 

"How  are  you,  Schleaser?  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
again !"  I  had  not  seen  him  since  the  strike.  Pro 
motion  had  removed  me  from  his  crew,  and  the 
changes  in  runs  had  thrown  everything  out  of  the 
old  ways.  A  new  management  controlled  the  road. 
Several  of  the  leading  managers  had  come  from  the 
middle  West  and  knew  little  about  mountain  rail 
roading.  Formerly  the  crews  went  out  regularly 
every  day,  each  engineman  having  his  own  engine. 
Now  they  were  boarded  out  in  turn,  ahead  or  behind 
regular  time,  according  to  the  amount  of  freight 
traffic,  engineers  taking  the  first  locomotive  avail 
able.  Schleaser  overflowed  with  the  new  manage 
ment  and  ejected  a  constant  torrent  of  fault-finding. 


140  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"Glad  tew  see  you  promoted,  Billy,  but  railroadin' 
in  these  days  ain't  what  it  us't  tew  be.  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  doin'  half  the  time  now,  an',  what's 
more,  I  don't  care  much.  My  last  trip  I  had  nothin' 
but  a  scrap  heap.  'Twouldn't  steam  no  more'n  a 
dry-goods  box.  My  fireman  didn't  do  nothin'  but 
swear  an'  slam  the  firebox  door.  We  stalled  three 
times  on  the  hill.  Never  had  steam  enough  tew  lift 
a  teakittle  cover.  Not  only  that,  but  the  old  hog 
pounded  till  I  thought  it  would  strip  every  brass  an' 
pin  off  'er.  Why,  the  ingines  now  ain't  kept  up  in 
shape.  You  know  I  us't  tew  pride  myself  that  every 
box  was  as  tight  's  a  drum  an'  the  brass  shinin'  like 
a  lookin'-glass." 

"Yes,  that's  so,  Phil,"  I  put  in. 

"Ah-h,  you  bet,"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  same  old 
laugh.  Schleaser's  locomotive  had  always  appeared 
as  well  as  any  on  the  division.  "Them  Westerners 
may  know  how  tew  drive  cattle,  but  they  don't 
know  railroadin',  even  if  they  think  they  dew.  'Bout 
the  time  every  siding  is  filled  with  bunged-up  ingines 
they'll  sing  another  song.  I'm  not  goin'  tew  slick 
up  my  ingine  to-day  fur  Tom,  Dick,  an'  Harry  tew 
run  'er  to-morrer.  They  ain't  goin'  tew  dew  it  fur 
me,  an'  I  don't  blame  'em  neither.  It's  a  good  thing 
the  company's  orderin'  new  locomotives,  or  they'd 
soon  have  tew  put  on  mules. 

"Tew's  fifty  minutes  late  as  usual.  Egad!  I 
don't  know  when  tew  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  no  more. 
Th'  ole  woman  says  I  don't  stay  home  long  enough 


Long  Hours.  141 

tew  £it  acquainted,  out  as  I  am  all  hours  o'  the 
night  an'  day.  Have  tew  take  a  leetle  stimulant  oc 
casionally,  er  I'd  sleep  at  my  post.  Come  over  tew 
Moyer's  jest  for  old  time's  sake,  Billy.  I  know  you 
didn't  us't  tew  take  nothin';  now  's  you're  in  with 
the  big-bugs  you  might  take  a  nip.  Guess  you  find 
lots  of  it  there?"  pointing  toward  the  special,  "but 
come  on !" 

"No,  thanks,  Phil!  I've  not  taken  anything  yet, 
and,  what's  more,  I'm  not  going  to  begin,  either. 
Yes,  they  have  plenty  of  the  best,  so  called,  on  our 
train,  but  they  would  fire  us  in  a  minute  if  they 
caught  us  in  it  or  anything  like  it.  They  can  have 
it ;  we  cannot.  It  isn't  consistent.  It's  true,  all  the 
same.  I  tell  you,  Phil,  I  don't  need  it,  and,  thank 
God,  I  don't  crave  it.  Good-bye,  old  fellow !  Better 
keep  away  from  Moyer's."  And  I  swung  onto  the 
special  as  it  passed. 

I  had  already  been  on  duty  twenty-six  hours.  It 
would  be  two  more  hours  before  I  got  to  bed,  and 
that,  too,  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  No  one  liked 
the  irregular  part  of  the  present  railroading  system. 
Passenger,  local  freight,  and  shifting  crews  alone 
were  regular.  Many  of  the  shifting  crews,  how 
ever,  were  twenty-four  hours  on  and  twenty-four 
off;  occasionally  twenty- four  on  and  twelve  off. 
Judging  by  myself,  victuals  were  tasteless,  every 
body  seemed  cross,  pail  not  packed  properly,  and 
things  in  general  ran  crossways  or  behind  time. 
.Wrecks  had  become  more  frequent  since  the  strike, 


142  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

though  nearly  all  the  old  men  had  been  reinstated. 
There  was  a  system  in  the  management,  of  course. 
As  it  is  hard  for  an  old  dog  to  learn  new  tricks,  so  it 
appeared  hard  for  the  old  men  to  learn  new  ways. 

The  use  of  air  brakes  had  increased  the  size  of 
the  trains.  This  naturally  threw  all  the  little  jim 
mies  off  the  road,  to  be  replaced  by  gondolas  that 
could  stand  the  bumping.  Nearly  all  of  the  cars 
built  were  more  or  less  increased  in  size.  Locomo 
tives  increased  to  the  dignity  of  "Mother  Hub- 
bards,"  "hogs,"  and  "compounds."  The  old  air 
brake,  working  through  a  dozen  or  more  cars, 
proved  impracticable.  The  direct  pressure  upon  the 
brake  decreased  the  train-line  pressure  so  rapidly 
that  it  became  impossible  to  hold  heavy  loads  down  a 
long  grade  with  a  large  number  of  cars  of  air.  With 
a  sufficient  number  of  brakes  to  steady  a  heavy  train 
the  air  could  not  be  generated  rapidly  enough  to 
meet  the  demand;  with  fewer  connected  cars  the 
train  bumped,  jerked,  and  often  parted.  This  pro 
duced  wrecks. 

The  old  three-way  valve  and  the  direct  pressure 
are  now  discarded.  In  their  stead  are  the  triple 
valve  and  an  auxiliary  reservoir  of  air  under  each 
car.  The  main  reservoir  or  drum  on  the  engine  has 
a  pressure  of  ninety  pounds  and  the  train-line  pres 
sure  has  seventy.  Whenever  the  train-line  pressure 
decreases  by  the  escape  of  air  the  brakes  are  ap 
plied  and  remain  so  until  the  air  from  the  main 
reservoir  restores  the  train-line  pressure  to  seventy 


Long  Hours.  143 

pounds.  This  system  is  far  the  more  complicated, 
and,  hence,  less  reliable  in  some  respects,  but  on 
the  whole  it  is  better.  Should  there  be  a  leak  in  the 
coupling  tubes,  or  the  train  break,  everything  stops. 
Accidents  are  impossible  from  that  source.  The  en 
gineer  also  controls  every  car  that  is  connected  with 
air.  Even  the  air  may  be  cut  out  of  the  auxiliary 
reservoir  on  an  individual  car  and  carried  to  those 
in  the  rear.  This,  however,  is  not  usually  done,  ex 
cept  in  case  of  a  "cripple."  Long  trains  are  yet 
steadied  by  the  application  of  hand  brakes  at  the 
rear,  when  running  down  grades  and  over  hog's- 
backs  and  summits. 

These  appliances  are  great  labor-savers  as  well 
as  a  convenience  and  a  safety.  The  trainmen,  how 
ever,  must  be  on  the  alert.  As  a  rule,  the  air  works. 
The  emergency,  supposed  to  stop  everything,  is  an 
application  used  only  in  case  of  accident  or  obstruc 
tion  ahead.  The  control  of  the  train  depends  largely 
upon  the  nerve  of  the  man  at  the  throttle.  Every 
other  member  of  the  crew,  however,  must  be  at  his 
post,  whether  he  does  anything  or  not.  Heroes  often 
lose  their  lives  through  the  negligence  of  others  or 
by  accidents,  the  cause  of  which  being  beyond  the 
knowledge  and  control  of  mortals.  These  incidents, 
however,  are  rare.  Therefore,  under  these  nerve- 
straining  conditions,  railroaders  should  have  their 
regular  work,  rest,  and  runs,  as  well  as  practice  total 
abstinence  from  stimulants  of  all  kinds. 

"You  pull  us  to-day,  do  you,  Neely  ?"  I  asked,  as 


144  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

rny  good  friend  sat  down  on  a  baggage  truck  beside 
me.  It  was  five  minutes  before  leaving  time.  We 
had  to  run  first  section  of  an  excursion  train  to 
River  Valley  Park.  Our  coaches  were  already  filled 
to  overflowing,  and  hundreds  of  passengers  stood 
waiting  for  the  next  section. 

"Yes,  Billy,  and  I'd  rather  forfeit  a  half  month's 
pay  than  go  out  to-day.  I've  been  out  twenty-four 
hours  already,  and  am  more  dead  than  alive.  The 
trainmaster  met  me  when  I  stepped  off  my  engine 
an  hour  ago  and  told  me  what  must  be  done.  I 
simply  said  it  was  impossible  and  unreasonable  to 
send  me  out  without  rest.  He  fumed  and  swore  and 
said  I  could  do  one  of  two  things.  I  knew  what  that 
meant.  If  I  had  coal  or  freight,  I  wouldn't  care  so 
much.  I  don't  like  to  pull  excursion  trains." 

"All  aboard !"  shouted  the  conductor.  I  hastened 
to  the  car,  took  up  the  stepping  stool,  threw  it  over 
the  brake  lever,  and  shouted,  "Right  here!"  The 
engineer  rose  wearily  and  lumbered  along  down  the 
platform  to  his  engine.  His  eyes  rolled  heavily. 
Black  rings  of  dirt  and  care  circled  them,  and  his 
honest  face  was  streaked  with  grease  and  sweat. 

For  two  hours  everything  ran  gayly.  The  pic 
nickers  rejoiced.  In  spite  of  my  environment  my 
thoughts  drifted  to  the  faithful  man  in  the  cab. 
Within  half  a  mile  of  our  destination  our  train  came 
to  a  sudden  standstill.  Hastening  to  the  locomo 
tive,  I  found  my  friend  flat  on  his  back  under  the 
engine  and  working  with  all  his  might. 


Long  Hours.  145 

"What's  up,  Ot?"  I  asked. 

"Not  much  at  present,  but  it  means  hours  of  work 
for  me  at  the  Park  when  I  need  a  nap — another  in 
cident  of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  hold  of  the  same 
engine,"  as  he  squeezed  out  through  the  greasy 
wheels. 

He  sprang  into  the  cab,  blew  in  the  flag,  and 
opened  the  throttle.  The  second  section  picked  up 
our  flag  and  overhauled  us  just  as  the  passengers 
had  left  the  cars,  for  we  had  finished  our  journey  at 
a  twenty-mile-an-hour  gait. 

At  3  o'clock  the  break  was  repaired.  We  left  at 
3:30.  "I'd  give  anything  if  I  was  in  Bryson,  my 
boy.  I'm  not  only  played  out,  but  there's  a  strange 
feeling  come  over  me  that  something's  going  to  go 
wrong.  It  broods  over  me  like  a  nightmare.  If  I 
had  an  old  fireman  I'd  chance  him  in  my  place.  But 
it's  no  use  whining,  though.  Keep  your  eye  skinned, 
Billy,  and  we'll  trust  God  for  the  rest." 

I  assured  the  faithful  servant  that  I  would  like 
to  help  him  if  possible.  "Cheer  up,  Ot !  It'll  come 
out  all  right,  never  fear." 

He  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  and  strode  away 
with,  "Well,  it's  no  use  dodging.  Farewell !" 

We  returned  second  section.  Two  hours  passed 
without  incident.  I  breathed  easier.  Perhaps  the 
engineer's  extreme  weariness  had  made  him  vision 
ary,  and  that  there  was  no  omen  of  evil  above  his 
star.  I  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  With 
out  any  warning  the  crash  came.  The  occupants  of 
10 


146  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

my  coach  were  hurled  headlong  against  the  seats, 
yet  none  sustained  serious  injury.  I  measured  my 
length  in  the  aisle.  Regaining  my  feet  and  rushing 
from  the  car  amid  the  screams  of  women  and  shouts 
of  men,  I  hastened  forward.  We  had  run  into  the 
first  section,  telescoped  the  two  rear  coaches,  and  the 
engine  lay  steaming  in  the  midst  of  the  third.  The 
cries  and  curses  of  the  wounded  and  dying  were 
heartrending.  The  lives  of  twoscore  or  more  went 
out  like  the  snuffing  of  a  candle.  A  hundred  others 
were  seriously  injured,  many  of  whom  died  later. 
Little  ones  lay  crushed  to  death  in  their  mothers' 
arms.  Children  pinioned  with  the  splinters  called 
for  papa  to  help,  quick,  and  papa  lay  in  death  a  few 
feet  away.  Fortunately,  the  wreck  was  not  fired. 

Deaf  to  the  cries  for  assistance,  I  slowly  crawled 
over  the  debris  toward  the  hissing  engine.  The  cab 
was  ripped  clean  from  the  boiler.  Where  could  be 
the  man  who  had  caused  the  wreck,  and  yet  who  was 
as  innocent  as  any  man  on  the  road? 

"Neely,  hello,  Neely!"  I  called  softly. 

"Here,  Billy!"  faintly  came  up  from  the  steam 
and  timbers  beneath  me. 

"Are  you  much  hurt,  Ot?"  I  cried  excitedly. 

"O,  Billy !  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  fell  asleep  in  spite 
o'  myself — only  a  minute — O  God!  I  knew  I 
couldn't — keep  awake.  I  did  my  best.  I  would 
have  died  a  hundred  times  if  I  could  have  saved  this 
wreck.  The  spirit  was  willing — but — the  flesh — 
was  weak — weak — Billy — " 


Long  Hours.  147 

I  seized  an  ax  and  chopped  for  dear  life.  The 
fireman  joined  me,  his  face  covered  with  blood  from 
a  small  contusion  on  the  forehead.  Several  gruff 
men  clambered  up  near  us,  and  with  oaths  and 
threats  tried  to  drive  us  from  our  work.  "Leave  the 
fool  to  die  by  inches!"  they  shouted.  The  fireman 
seized  a  large  splinter,  drew  it,  and  declared  he 
would  brain  the  first  man  who  attempted  to  delay 
the  rescue  of  the  suffering  engineer. 

Breathless,  and  with  the  sweat  pouring  from  me 
in  streams,  I  rested  a  moment.  My  guard  took  the 
ax  and  I  the  club.  Knowing  more  of  the  mechanism 
of  the  locomotive  than  I  did,  Allie  reached  through 
the  steam  and  closed  the  cock.  In  a  moment  the  air 
cleared  and  we  saw  our  friend  pinioned  to  the 
ground  and  either  dead  or  in  a  faint.  It  proved  to 
be  the  latter.  In  five  minutes  more  we  lifted  his 
stalwart  frame  out  of  its  narrow  cell  and  carried  it 
to  a  place  of  safety.  We  found  his  heart  beating. 
No  bones  were  broken.  After  bathing  his  head  in 
water  his  eyes  opened,  and  almost  immediately  he 
began  to  talk. 

"O,  Billy!  It's  awful!  They'll  say  I  was  drunk 
and  careless  and  now  a  murderer,  but  God  knows  I 
was  a  sober  Christian  trying  to  do  my  best !" 

He  was  not  badly  hurt.  However,  under  the  aw 
ful  mental  strain  and  physical  exhaustion  he 
swooned  again.  The  bystanders  who  saw  his  face 
and  heard  his  words  at  once  showed  pity  and  sym 
pathy.  No  man  could  look  into  the  eyes  of  Ot 


148  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

(Neely  without  seeing  a  man  in  them  and  a  soul  as 
pure  as  the  water  from  a  mountain  spring. 

An  hour  later  he  was  put  under  arrest  and  taken 
away  by  the  authorities.  "It's  all  right,  Billy.  God's 
will  be  done.  I  was  asleep,  but  I  did  my  best.  Drop 
around  and  comfort  Mary  a  little  when  you  get  back 
to  Bryson.  Good-bye!"  He  squeezed  my  hand 
faintly  and  tottered  away.  He  carried  with  him  a 
strong  heart,  though,  alas !  a  shattered  body. 

He  was  tried  for  manslaughter.  Through  the  in 
fluence  of  the  company  and  his  host  of  friends  he 
was  acquitted.  Physically,  he  never  became  the 
same,  though  his  life  was  the  type  of  the  noblest 
Christian  character.  He  pulled  the  throttle  no  more. 
His  railroading  was  over,  but  he  never  forgot  the 
boys  in  his  prayers,  and  in  his  heart-to-heart  strug 
gles  with  them  on  account  of  their  sins.  The  com 
pany  honored  him,  though  unable  to  reinstate  him, 
even  had  he  desired  it. 

The  trainmaster  resigned  his  position  and  apolo 
gized  to  Neely,  who  frankly  forgave  him  with  all 
his  heart.  Neely  became  a  trainmaster  on  the 
spiritual  railroad  and  secured  for  many  a  poor 
sinner  a  life  job  with  an  eternal  salary.  He  became 
to  the  C.  O.  &  B.  what  Jim  Burdick  was  to  the 
C.  B.  &  Q.  in  1900.  As  one  hard  railroader  said 
of  Neely's  work  on  our  road,  "This  road  don't  need 
much  except  to  git  rid  of  a  lot  o'  old  sinners  like  us 
to  be  an  air  line  to  heaven.  It's  only  a  question  of 
time  till  you  see  the  angels  swipin'  our  jobs,  an* 


Long  Hours.  149 

we'll  be  bounced  a-scootin'.  Instead  o'  callin'  out, 
'Twenty  minutes  for  lunch/  at  Bryson,  it  'ill  be, 
'Twenty  minutes  for  prayer  meetin'.  And  as  soon 
as  the  old  man  ketches  this  religious  smallpox  he'll 
stop  Sunday  trains  an'  every  man  that  don't  go  to 
church  an'  learn  their  signals  will  git  their  walkin' 
papers  mighty  quick." 


150  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


M 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
Marriage* 

AY  I  have  another  cup  of  coffee,  Mrs.  Con 
rad,  if  you  please?"  As  the  old  lady 
slowly  rose  to  comply  with  my  request  I 
buttered  the  half  of  a  hot  roll,  cogitating  the  while 
that  a  boarding-house  mistress  was  not  the  ideal 
mistress  by  a  long  way.  Mrs.  Conrad  was  one  of 
the  best  and  most  motherly  women  that  ever  lived. 
Her  home  was  mine.  With  a  daughter  and  son  she 
lived  in  her  own  cottage  in  the  suburbs  of  Coalville. 
Elias,  the  son,  was  a  railroader  like  myself.  Four 
other  sons  were  married,  away  from  home  and  run 
ning  on  different  divisions  of  the  C.  O.  &  B.  Janie 
worked  in  a  dressmaking  shop  down  town.  Mr. 
Conrad  had  been  dead  a  couple  of  years.  The  Coal 
ville  family  lived  in  comfortable  circumstances,  still 
the  old  lady  kept  from  one  to  three  boarders  to  de 
fray  running  expenses  of  the  house.  It  was  an  ideal 
boarding  place  for  a  fellow  like  me.  On  this  par 
ticular  morning,  however,  my  nature  was  in  re 
bellion,  and  Mother  Conrad's  quick  perception  read 
the  inner  longings  of  my  soul. 

"You're  gettin'  a  leetle  restless,  ain't  you,  Wil 
liam?  Judgin'  from  your  looks,  you  hain't  got  a 
friend  in  the  world." 


Marriage.  151 

"Well,"  sipping  my  coffee,  "no,  I'm  not  friend 
less.  I  believe  I  have  one  waiting  on  me,  and  a 
good,  motherly  one,  too.  But  you  know,  Mrs.  Con 
rad,  that  friends,  a  good  place  to  sleep,  good  food, 
and  a  good  job  don't  make  a  home!  I  never  had  a 
home  or  relatives  to  my  knowledge." 

"I  want  to  know!"  her  sympathies  enlisted  at 
once. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  time  when  I  thought  myself 
friendless,  yet  the  unseen  Hand  that  I  afterward 
learned  to  trust  must  have  led  me,  for  I  came  out  all 
right.  Since  then  I  have  never  lacked  one  Friend 
at  least,  besides  a  number  of  earthly  friends." 

"Yes,  he's  the  best  Friend ! — Let  me  get  ye  'nother 
cup  o'  coffee?  Won't?  Just  as  well  have  it  as  not. 
I've  got  plenty  on  it." 

"I  feel  that  I  have  a  brother  somewhere,  and  that 
he's  a  railroader  too.  I  never  heard  of  anybody  by 
the  name  of  Barson,  and  I  begin  to  think  that  is  not 
my  correct  name.  So  I  am  now  looking  out  for  a 
man  who  has  a  peculiar  history  and  who  looks  some 
thing  like  me.  It  would  be  more  like  home  to  have 
even  a  brother.  Now,  don't  think  I'm  finding  fault 
with  my  present  quarters.  You  have  cared  for  me 
as  well  as  anyone  could." 

"O  no,  no,  William !  I've  got  too  much  sense  for 
that.  We  enjoy  our  little  home  and  try  to  make 
others  happy  in  it.  God's  been  very  good  to  us. 
You  jes'  keep  right  on  and  it  'ill  come  out  for  the 
best.  You'll  fall  in  with  your  brother  yit." 


152  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

I  rose  and  put  on  my  coat  preparatory  to  going. 
My  landlady  set  my  pail  on  the  table,  and,  with  a 
smile,  remarked:  "I  guess,  William,  you're  not  so 
much  concerned  about  your  brother  this  mornin'  as 
you  be  about  some  little  gal  somewhere.  Your 
homesickness  is  in  the  region  of  the  heart." 

As  a  matter  of  course,  I  blushed  and  hemmed  and 
hawed.  But  the  remark  was  too  direct  to  be  evaded 
without  some  answer.  Best  of  all,  Mrs.  Conrad 
was  no  gossip.  By  some  occult  process  she  had 
diagnosed  my  cardiac  symptoms  and  plainly  stated 
my  disease.  There  could  be  no  shying.  Taking 
from  her  hand  the  well-packed  pail,  I  gave  her  to 
understand  that  June  would  find  me  in  a  home  of 
my  own,  if  health  and  money  could  do  it. 

"I  kind  o'  thought  so,  Mr.  Barson,  an'  I  don't 
blame  you  a  bit.  If  you  want  to  buy  a  house  Dr. 
Adams's  house  on  Cherry  Street  is  for  sale  and  will 
be  vacant  by  the  first  o'  June.  The  doctor's  goin' 
West  an*  wants  to  sell.  We'd  like  to  have  you  for 
neighbors — real  glad  on  it !  Here's  your  night  key. 
You  may  want  to  come  in  when  you  git  back  to 
night."  " 

With  a  gracious  smile  of  kindness  the  good 
woman  handed  me  the  key,  which  in  my  absent- 
mindedness  I  had  left  in  the  door  the  night  before. 
My  embarrassment  revealed  the  one  thing  upper 
most  in  my  mind — in  fact,  it  was  all  that  was  in 
there;  and  really  it  had  about  half  brought  me  to 
my  senses  to  divulge  my  secret  to  the  old  lady.  At 


Marriage.  153 

any  rate,  my  heart  was  light,  the  day  was  bright, 
the  train  on  time,  and  all  was  well. 

I  was  running  rear  trainman  on  No.  4  from  Coal- 
ville  to  the  eastern  terminus  of  the  road,  and  re 
turning  on  train  No.  9,  arriving  at  Coalville  at  3 
A.  M.,  a  run  of  nearly  four  hundred  miles  in  fifteen 
hours  and  counting  me  two  days'  time.  The  day 
following  the  trip  we  lay  idle.  Time  dragged,  ex 
cept  when  I  was  asleep — usually  about  eight  hours 
at  a  stretch. 

It  was  the  balmy  tenth  of  May.  According  to  my 
limited  record  I  was  twenty-five  years  old  that  day. 
The  train  was  full.  No.  4  run  as  local  over  the 
Mountain  Division.  I  collected  the  tickets  from  the 
rear  car  to  help  out  the  conductor.  There  was  lit 
tle  time  to  scent  the  mountain  air  and  enjoy  the 
springtime  scenery  until  we  left  Bryson.  From 
'there  in,  for  nearly  a  hundred  miles,  we  made  but 
four  stops. 

"Is  this  the  train  to  take  to  go  to  Bryson  ?"  asked 
an  old  lady  just  before  leaving  time  on  our  return. 

"Yes,  ma'am !"  I  answered,  and  took  her  arm  to 
assist  her  on  board. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is?"  she  asked  again.  "What 
time  does  it  get  there?" 

"Yes,  ma'am !  Get  right  in  here.  We  arrive  at 
Bryson  at  eleven-ten." 

"This  must  be  the  train,  then,  for  my  son  Orin 
wrote  to  me  that  I'd  get  there  at  ten  minutes  past 
'Jeven," 


154  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Taking  Her  heavy  satchel  from  her  hand,  I  helped 
her  up  the  steps  and  seated  her  comfortably,  near  the 
rear  of  the  car,  and  placed  her  baggage  as  a  sort  of 
defense  for  her.  It  was  evident  that  the  old  lady 
had  not  traveled  extensively,  and  that  now  she  was 
far  from  home,  among  strangers.  Just  ahead  of  her 
and  across  the  aisle  sat  a  couple  of  young  men — 
hardly  deserving  the  name,  though.  Oblivious  of 
others,  they  carried  on  this  conversation  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  through  the  car. 

"Say,  Jack!    How  much  for  hay  seed  to-night?" 

"O,  'bout  a  quarter  for  granny's  carpetbag  full." 

At  these  remarks  a  couple  of  girls  began  to  titter 
and  flaunt  their  handkerchiefs  before  their  mouths. 
The  train  had  moved  out  from  the  station,  through 
the  maze  of  switches  and  colored  lights,  and  plunged 
into  the  darkness,  chasing  the  gleam  of  the  rails. 
Passing  the  old  lady  while  I  went  from  front  to 
rear,  she  stopped  me,  requesting  that  I  should  not 
carry  her  past  Bryson. 

"O,  dear!  I'm  afraid  granny  'ill  fall  off  the 
cars,"  moaned  one  of  the  aforementioned  youths. 

A  titter  from  the  seat  of  folly. 

"It  would  ruin  her  twenty-five-cent  bonnet!" 
wailed  the  other,  as  he  arranged  his  soft  hat  to  rep 
resent  a  poke  bonnet. 

A  large  man  in  front  turned,  scowled,  and  shook 
his  head  at  them. 

"Candies,  nice  and  fresh!  Havana  oranges,  all 
juicy!"  sang  out  the  newsboy  slowly  coming  down 


Marriage.  155 

the  aisle.  The  poke-bonnet  youth  swayed  to  and 
fro,  drawing  in  his  lips  to  represent  the  absence  of 
teeth,  while  the  other  shouted,  "Granny's  lost  'er 
teeth  and  can't  chaw !" 

The  large  man  spoke  up  cheerily  with  a  wink  at 
the  newsboy  and  a  nod  in  the  direction  of  the 
smarties,  "Have  you  any  sugar  rags  for  howling 
babes?" 

"O  yes!"  he  answered,  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
above  the  rush  and  clank  of  the  train.  "Sweet 
sugar  rags!  All  nice  and  juicy!  For  toothless  in 
fants  only — have  one?"  swinging  his  basket  to  the 
would-be  granny. 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  him,  and  hoots  came 
from  all  over  the  car.  "Good  for  Tommy!"  some 
shouted,  as  the  boy  continued  on  down  the  aisle 
singing  out  his  imaginary  wares — "Nice  juicy  rags 
for  toothless  babies.  Skull  caps  for  brainless  babies ! 
Two  for  five !  Buy  them  while  they're  going — two 
for  five!" 

A  minute  passed  before  the  laughter  subsided. 
Strong  men  wiped  from  their  eyes  tears  of  joy.  The 
imitation  poke  disappeared  and  two  smart  Alecks 
evaporated.  When  only  now  and  then  a  muffled 
burst  of  merriment  could  be  heard  Tommy  started 
back.  At  nearly  every  seat  he  made  a  sale.  The 
big  man  threw  a  quarter  into  the  basket,  with  a 
chuckle  and  "That's  all  right,  Tommy!  Well 
done!" 

When  the  newsboy  opened  the  door  to  pass  into 


156  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  car  forward  another  hearty  cheer  greeted  him, 
and  bowing  his  smiling  face  Tommy  Day  and  the 
empty  basket  passed  out  into  the  darkness. 

Only  a  few  minutes  elapsed  before  the  usual  hum 
of  voices  had  well-nigh  ceased.  Each  passenger 
turned,  twisted,  and  adjusted  himself  for  a  nap. 
The  uneasy  passenger  turned  and  motioned  to  me. 

"You're  takin'  them  to  an  asylum,  ain't  you?" 
she  asked,  pointing  to  the  docile  lambkins  across  the 
way.  "It's  too  bad  that  ones  so  young  should  have 
such  misfortunes."  Before  I  could  answer  she  con 
tinued:  "You're  sure  you'll  know  when  we  git  to 
Bryson.  It's  so  dark  I  don't  see  how  you  can  tell 
one  place  from  another." 

"It's  no  difficult  matter  to  tell  where  one  is  in  the 
darkest  nights  after  passing  over  the  road  hundreds 
of  times.  There's  no  danger  of  our  running  by  that 
station  anyway.  We  change  engines  there  and  stop 
twenty  minutes  for  lunch.  And,  besides,  Bryson 
was  my  home  for  about  eight  years." 

"You  used  to  live  there  then,  I  take  it?  Maybe 
you  know  my  son,  Orin  Neely.  He  was  a  rail 
roader  a  number  o'  years  and  had  some  bad  luck  a 
few  months  ago." 

"O  yes,  I  know—" 

"They  say  he  ain't  much  like  he  once  was,  but 
Grin's  a  good  boy." 

"Yes,  indeed,  he's  a—" 

"He  had  a  bad  wreck,  but  he  wa'n't  to  blame  for 
it — there  was  a  big — " 


Marriage.  157 

"Excuse  me,  madam!  Brewster!  Brewster! 
Change  for  the  Cedar  Valley  Railroad.  Brewster! 

An  hour  passed  before  I  could  again  converse 
with  my  old  friend,  for  already  she  seemed  almost 
a  mother  to  me.  She  might  have  appeared  odd  to 
some,  but  I  would  have  given  all  my  wages  to  have 
had  a  mother  of  the  same  stamp. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Neely,  I'm  well  acquainted  with  your 
son  at  Bryson.  My  name  is  Barson,  and — " 

"Dew  tell!  Be  you  Billy  Barson  my  son  has  so 
often  wrote  me  about?  Why,  wa'n't  you  on  his 
train  when  it  was  wrecked?  I'm  awful  glad  to  see 
you !  I  feel  perfectly  safe  in  your  hands  now." 

I  assured  her  that  she  need  have  no  anxiety  con 
cerning  her  safety,  and  that  in  good  time  I  would 
give  her  over  into  the  care  of  her  beloved  son.  We 
chatted  on  with  an  occasional  interruption.  Of 
course,  I  had  to  tell  her  about  my  hobby,  for  which 
she  showed  deep  emotion  as  only  a  loving  mother 
can.  She  only  hoped  that  some  day  I  would  find  my 
elder  brother.  Then  her  own  old  home  scene  came 
before  her — the  country  post  office  at  Haversham, 
Rhode  Island,  a  mile  away  from  their  little  farm  that 
overlooked  Block  Island  and  the  blue  waters  of  the 
bay  and  sound  around  it.  She  supposed  that  the  soil 
there  was  not  so  fertile  as  in  many  other  parts  of 
the  country,  but  it  was  her  home  and  the  most 
precious  spot  on  earth.  Then,  as  she  mused,  the  old 
place  and  loving  home  ties  were  better  subjects  for 
her  enjoyment  than  great  mansions,  wealth,  and 


158  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

fertile  fields  without  them.  She  confessed  her  ig 
norance  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  but  at  her  age  she 
was  beyond  caring  for  what  folks  said  about  her 
queer  ways. 

"My  idea  of  home  is  where  pa  an'  me  can  raise 
our  children  up  in  the  fear  o'  the  Lord  an'  away 
from  the  temptations  of  the  wicked  cities.  I'm  get- 
tin'  old,  an'  maybe  childish,  but  I'm  happy.  It 
makes  me  feel  like  a  child  when  pa  an'  me  kneel  at 
the  fam'ly  altar  with  our  sons  and  daughters  around 
us  and  pray  to  the  great  God  who  has  cared  for  us 
so  long  an'  tenderly.  We  don't  all  get  together  very 
often  now,  yet  it's  a  joy  to  know  that  we  all  pray 
at  the  same  altar  every  mornin'.  Mary's  in  Maine, 
Susan's  in  Ohio,  Dan'el's  in  Or'gon,  James  is  a 
missionary  in  India,  Charles  is  a  professor  in  a  mis 
sion  college  in  South  America,  Melissa  lives  near 
home,  Orin's  in  Bryson,  an'  Franklin,  the  baby,  is 
married  an'  lives  on  the  old  place.  They're  all  Chris 
tians,  every  one  on  'em,  and  I  think  we'll  be  an  aw 
ful  happy  fam'ly  over  the  river.  Pa  an'  me  will  soon 
be  the  first  occupants  of  that  new  place  an'  get  things 
ready  for  the  children,  jest  as  we  did  at  the  old 
Rhode  Island  home.  Pa's  an  invalid  now.  He's 
had  a  stroke.  He'll  soon  pass  on.  It  won't  be  long 
'fore  I'll  follow.  I  expect  this  is  my  last  long  jour 
ney  on  earth."  The  dear  old  mother  stopped  to  wipe 
her  eyes.  "I  wanted  to  see  Orin  again  an'  lean  my 
feeble,  totterin'  body  on  his  strong  arm.  Orin's  as 
good  a  boy  as  ever  lived.  I  guess  he's  good  's  I  got. 


Marriage.  159 

They're  all  better'n  I  deserve.  They've  been  awful 
good  to  pa  an'  me.  I  hope  the  Lord  'ill  reward 
them." 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  Bryson,  and  twenty-three 
minutes  late.  Sit  right  still  till  the  others  get 
out,  and  then  we'll  come  and  get  you.  Sit  right 
still! — Bryson!  Bryson!  Twenty  minutes  for 
lunch!" 

A  minute  later  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  my 
friend  Neely  stride  into  the  car  and  take  his  old 
mother  in  his  arms  as  he  would  have  taken  one  of 
his  little  girls.  Filial  and  maternal  love  mingled 
and  overflowed.  Due  notice  was  taken  of  me. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  train  drew  out  from  the 
light  of  the  station  and  rumbled  on  into  the  night  I 
meditated  alone  and  tried  to  console  myself. 

A  hush  fell  on  the  occupants  of  the  car.  I  mused 
on  for  hours.  My  mind  was  made  up.  The  next 
afternoon  I  struck  a  bargain  with  Dr.  Adams. 
Twenty-five  hundred  dollars  was  the  stipulated  price 
for  the  Cherry  Street  cottage,  for  which  I  gave  him 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  cash  and  a  mortgage  on 
the  property  for  the  remaining  amount.  My  fondest 
hopes  were  realizing. 

The  days  and  weeks  passed.  Every  moment  I 
was  not  on  the  road,  eating  or  sleeping,  I  feathered 
my  nest.  One  day,  with  good  Mrs.  Conrad  and 
another  intimate  friend  as  advisers,  I  selected  car 
pets,  bedroom  suits,  and  curtains,  which  were  put 
in  their  proper  places  after  the  rooms  had  been 


160  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

thoroughly  renovated,  papered,  and  painted.  Every 
thing  was  complete,  with  the  exception  of  what  I 
knew  Annie  would  bring  with  her.  The  fire  was  to 
be  lighted  and  supper  ready  on  the  twentieth  of 
June. 

"Knee-deep  in  June!"  Summerfield.  Annie  and 
I  strolled  up  through  the  grove  back  of  the  barn. 
The  stars  twinkled  softly  upon  us,  and  the  breeze 
from  the  Delaware  valley  swept  up  the  mountain 
side.  To-morrow,  in  the  little  church  where 
clustered  so  many  sweet  memories,  we  were  to  be 
made  one  in  law,  as  we  already  were  one  in  heart. 
The  whistle  of  a  whip-poor-will  and  the  tinkling 
notes  of  a  wood  robin  from  the  deep  woods  behind 
us,  softened  by  the  pathetic  cooing  of  a  mourning 
dove  from  a  distant  hillside,  blended  as  sweetly  and 
harmoniously  as  the  several  passions  that  swept  over 
the  harpstrings  of  our  souls.  We  were  so  happy. 
Yet  sadness  tinged  the  joy,  because  this  would  be 
the  last  of  our  wooing  days  among  the  old,  old 
scenes  of  our  childhood.  Their  simplicity,  hallowed 
places,  and  cozy  corners  were  to  be  our  haunts  no 
more. 

Before  the  altar  railing  in  the  Summerfield  Metho 
dist  Church  where  I  knelt  and  found  my  soul  knit 
to  the  life  of  my  Elder  Brother,  Jesus,  on  the  padded 
elevation,  covered  with  the  old  red  and  brown  carpet, 
Annie  and  I  kneeled  and  received  the  benediction  of 
Rev.  Mr.  Blessner.  We  rose  and  our  lips  publicly 
acknowledged  the  happy  union  our  hearts  had  long 


Marriage.  161 

enjoyed.    As  we  rode  away  from  the  sacred  edifice 
the  bell  rang  jubilantly  and  our  souls  responded : 

"Ring  out,  glad  bell !    Your  message  tells, 
Through  tremulous  waves  of  air, 

That  the  hour  is  sweet,  with  joy  complete, 
For  a  dream  divinely  fair 

Has  opened  the  way  to  endless  day 
And  Love  is  monarch  there." 

Of  course  we  went  to  Niagara.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  at  twilight,  the  twentieth  of  June,  we  entered 
Cherry  Street  cottage.  It  was  still  and  tenantless. 
Supper  steamed  on  the  table.  The  fire  burned  low 
in  the  kitchen  range.  ,We  were  alone,  at  home — 
honeymoon  begun. 

"Home's  not  merely  four  square  walls 
Though  with  pictures  hung  and  gilded; 

Home  is  where  affection  calls, 
Filled  with  charms  the  heart  hath  builded. 

"Home !  go  watch  the  faithful  dove, 
Sailing  'neath  the  heaven  above  us; 

Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love, 
Home  is  where  there's  one  to  love  us." 

11 


162  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
Left. 

TOO-O-O-T,  too-o-o-t,  too-o-o-t,  tooo-o-t! 
That  meant  that  I  was  left.  A  half  hour 
before,  a  slight  accident  to  the  engine  sent 
me  back  with  a  flag.  The  break  had  been  repaired, 
my  duty  ended,  and  now  I  saw  the  train  gliding 
along  and  away  from  me.  I  was  alone  on  the  barren 
mountain  slope,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Notchview 
station.  There  I  determined  to  go  and  wait  for  No. 
4,  due  in  about  two  hours  and  a  half. 

When  I  stepped  into  the  little  mountain  station 
the  telegrapher,  Charles  Tickman,  called  out 
cheerily,  "Hello,  Billy !  Left  ?  Glad  you've  dropped 
in  to-day,  for  I'm  considerable  out  o'  sorts  and 
want  to  prod  somebody  with  my  tale  of  woe.  Do 
you  remember  those  geraniums,  petunias,  and 
begonias  I  had  in  the  window,  and  all  a  mass  of 
bloom  and  foliage?" 

Charlie  was  complimented  by  all  the  trainmen 
for  the  beauty  of  his  window.  It  was  "as  neat  as 
wax."  He  always  attended  strictly  to  his  busi 
ness,  too. 

"Yes,  I  remember  them,  but  what  have  you  done 
with  them?" 

"Done?     I'd  like  to  mop  the  gutter  with  our 


Left.  163 

division  superintendent.  He  can't  see  beauty  except 
in  an  eagle  stamped  on  the  face  of  a  gold  twenty. 
Confound  his  old  skin!  He  stepped  off  the  Meteor 
this  morning  and  sauntered  into  my  conservatory 
like  a  ruffian  into  a  lady's  chamber.  Instead  of  com 
mending  me  for  the  neat  appearance  of  the  room, 
he  knocked  the  ashes  off  his  cigar  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  and  grunted,  as  his  little  finger  touched 
the  fire  in  the  end  of  the  weed,  'Out  with  them 
things  there!'  pointing  to  the  flowers;  'you're  here 
in  the  interest  of  the  company,  and  not  to  cultivate 
posies.  Those  windows  are  to  see  through  and  not 
to  see  at!'  He  was  gone,  and  twenty  minutes  later 
wired  me  from  Summit,  'Have  you  cleaned  out?' 
They're  out  back  of  the  station  frantically  swinging 
their  tender  arms  in  the  wind.  I'd  as  soon  lose  a 
tooth  as  part  with  'em.  There's  no  use  growling 
about  it,  though.  We  have  the  option  of  obeying 
orders  or  quitting." 

And  Charlie  looked  as  if  mourning  for  a  near  rela 
tive.  His  was  about  the  only  room  on  the  road 
without  a  cuspidor — a  veritable  floating  island  in 
nicotine  expectorations  that  befouled  the  floor  and 
atmosphere.  Even  the  roughest  railroaders,  who 
were  accustomed  to  ruminate  their  juicy  morsel, 
ceased  at  the  threshold  of  Charlie's  sanctum.  They 
looked  upon  him  not  as  a  crank  or  as  feminine,  but 
as  a  gentleman.  They  used  him  and  his  accordingly. 
His  word  was  law. 

Clickety-click-click-click  went  the  sounder.    The 


164  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

attention  of  the  heartbroken  operator  was  called  to 
his  business  for  a  moment.  Answering  the  call  and 
shoving  back  the  lever  to  the  key,  he  said,  "Two's 
engine  is  broke  down.  No.  329  hauls  her  out  o' 
Collins.  You're  to  follow  on  No.  4.  I  say,  things 
are  coming  to  a  pretty  pass  when  a  telegrapher's  got 
to  be  tied  up  to  his  machine  like  a  dog  to  his  kennel. 
I  used  to  work  twelve  hours,  and  occasionally  dur 
ing  that  time  get  out  into  the  air  for  a  minute.  It's 
all  day  with  me  now.  I'm  pounding  brass  from 
seven  to  seven,  week  days  and  Sundays.  We  receive 
more  orders  under  the  new  management  and  double 
track  than  we  did  under  the  old  regime  and  single 
track.  A  fellow's  got  to  bend  over  the  ticker  all  the 
time  like  a  mother  over  a  sick  child.  I  haven't  time 
to  go  a  sparking..  Should  I  ever  get  into  a  mat 
rimonial  alliance  I'd  have  to  get  a  lay-off  once  in  a 
while  to  renew  acquaintance  with  my  wife.  All  the 
operators  don't  fare  as  slim  as  I  do,  but  it's  the  rule 
rather  than  the  exception." 

"How's  No.  4,  Charlie?"  called  a  brakeman 
through  the  open  window.  He  had  just  jumped 
from  a  slowly  passing  freight. 

"On  time,  Jim!" 

"Thank  you!  All  right!"  shouted  the  brakeman, 
and,  swinging  his  arms  to  the  engineer,  boarded  the 
train  that  wound  on  down  the  mountain  grade. 

"Te-he-e!  O,  deah!  The  sun  is  so  warm !"  Fan 
ning  herself  with  all  her  might,  a  young  fashion- 
plate  entered  the  room.  She  stood  in  the  open  door 


Left.  165 

of  the  office  and  began :  "Mr.  Tickman,  is  there  an 
express  package  here  for  me — Bertha  Yawka  ?  My, 
but  I'll  melt !  I  expect  a  box  of  Huyler's  best  from 
papa  in  Noo  Yawk.  No?  Sure?  Is  that  the  kind 
of  wata  you  drink?"  she  continued,  blubbering  away 
in  a  cup  of  water  she  had  drawn  from  the  tank. 
"It's  worse  than  Tuckahoe  wata.  I'm  ova  at  the 
Mountain  House  for  a  month,  and  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  deliver  the  package  when  it  arrives?  O, 
isn't  it  delightful  up  here?  Good-bye!" 

Before  an  answer  could  be  given  the  gauzy  wings 
had  flown. 

"She's  a  type  of  our  summer  girls,  Billy.  They 
may  be  good  for  something,  but  I've  never  found 
out  just  what,  unless  it  be  to  eat  Huyler's  best  and 
to  give  orders.  They  think  I've  nothing  to  do  but 
trot  round  at  their  beck  and  call.  They're  not  all 
so,  thank  fortune.  The  cultured  are  human  and 
sympathetic,  but  the  wealthy  ignorant  are  disgust 
ing.  Gee  Whitaker,  Billy!  Congratulations,  old 
boy!  I  came  near  forgetting  you  had  taken  unto 
yourself  a  wife." 

"Thank  you,  Charlie!  I'm  living  in  the  state  of 
connubial  felicity  these  days.  I  recommend  the  same 
state  to  you  for  health,  wealth,  and  wisdom." 

"Well,  to  be  honest,  I  would  like  it,  but  I  haven't 
a  ghost  of  a  show  to  get  off  this  mountain  to  hunt 
deer.  I  see  nothing  but  these  summer  butterflies, 
and  I'd  as  soon  court  and  wed  a  candy  store  or  a 
millinery  shop.  Where  did  you  find  Mrs.  Barson  ?" 


166  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"O,  where  the  sweetest  flowers  bloom — back  in 
the  country." 

"You  showed  your  sense  again,  but,  granny! 
What's  the  use  of  cultivating  the  soul  affections? 
We  railroaders  are  bound  to  become  machines  any 
way,  and  the  sooner  the  better,  I  guess.  No  flowers, 
no  ornaments,  nothing  but  an  eternal  clickety-click 
from  morning  till  night,  and  a  desolate  room  in  a 
boarding  house,  with  a  bed,  washstand,  and  dirty 
linen  from  night  till  morning.  I  daren't  be  caught 
with  a  storybook  in  my  hand.  By  the  way,  they've 
ordered  the  bulletin  boards  of  religious  services  and 
the  wall  pockets  for  religious  literature  removed 
from  the  waiting  room.  See  those  ads  over  there 
on  the  clock?  'Jones'  Restaurant!'  'Valley  House!' 
'Schweitzer's  Beer !'  From  externals  our  line  should 
run  through  the  desert  of  Sahara  or  over  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon.  I  begin  to  feel  heathenish. 
Haven't  been  inside  of  a  church  in  a  year.  Guess  if 
we  ever  get  a  leave  of  absence  we'll  have  to  strike 
for  it.  Might  as  well  tie  up  the  road  as  all  of  us 
fellows  to  be  tied  up.  O,  Jemima !  Maybe  I'll  feel 
better  when  my  bile  works  off.  I  tell  you  it's  tough 
just  the  same.  Sitting  here  alone  the  sunny,  sum 
mer  Sundays,  I  imagine  myself  back  to  the  old 
home  in  the  country,  trudging  to  Sunday  school, 
with  daisies  and  buttercups  on  either  side  of  the 
path  across  lots,  and  an  old-fashioned  aster  in  my 
buttonhole.  It's  about  the  only  satisfaction  I  get. 
I  can  fairly  taste  the  noon  lunch  of  bread  and  milk. 


Left.  167 

We  ate  it  with  bowl  in  hand  while  the  lazy  flies 
buzzed  back  and  forth.  The  whole  atmosphere  was 
loaded  with  the  fragrance  of  fields.  Its  elixir  had  a 
certain  soporific  quality,  just  the  thing  for  a  boy's 
siesta.  It  grinds  on  a  fellow  like  prison  life,  here. 
I  now  appreciate  the  old  scenes  I  once  hated.  I'd 
give  the  world  to  be  back  there  for  a  month." 

To-oo-oo-oo ! 

"There's  No.  4,  and  that  means  solitude  again. 
Might  'bout  as  well  be  a  hermit  as  an  operator.  But 
I'm  glad  you  got  left,  Billy.  You've  done  me  good. 
Good-bye!" 

Four  slowed  down,  and  as  soon  as  the  speed  had 
decreased  sufficiently  I  jumped  and  signaled  to  go 
ahead.  Taking  a  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  day  coach, 
my  attention  was  at  once  called  to  a  sick  woman. 
A  young  lady,  I  concluded  a  daughter,  fanned  her 
constantly,  while  a  gentleman,  her  husband,  I  pre 
sumed,  sat  at  her  feet,  for  the  back  of  one  seat  had 
been  turned  forward  that  the  invalid  might  recline. 
They  were  poor  people,  yet  rich  in  affection  and 
patience. 

"Close  the  window,  James!  The  gas  is  suffoca 
ting.  Annie,  where  are  my  smelling  salts?"  the 
woman  asked  feebly. 

"Here  they  are,  mother." 

"Thank  you,  dear !    That  is  so  much  better." 

The  day  was  hot;  the  car  stuffy.  When  we 
emerged  from  a  tunnel  the  air  within  was  stifling. 
The  train  stopped  at  Carton,  near  which  was  a 


168  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

small,  clean  pond  covered  with  water  lilies.  The 
breeze  floated  over  the  water  and  into  the  car  win 
dow.  The  sick  woman  smiled. 

"Water  lilies !  Water  lilies!  Three  for  five!" 
A  modest  little  boy,  with  well-worn  though  clean 
clothing,  came  timidly  down  the  aisle  announcing 
his  wares.  On  his  left  arm  lay  a  mass  of  fresh  water 
lilies,  the  fragrance  of  which  filled  the  car.  He 
had  made  three  sales  before  he  reached  the  sufferer. 
She  raised  her  head  as  she  smelled  the  perfume.  The 
little  fellow  took  in  the  situation  at  once  and  said  to 
Annie,  "Give  the  lady  these,"  handing  her  a  number 
of  flowers  and  going  right  on  with,  "Water  lilies! 
Three  for  five!"  All  in  the  car  noticed  the  kindly 
act,  and  at  once  felt  the  spirit  of  Him  who  is  so 
mindful  of  the  "lilies  of  the  field."  When  the  boy 
passed  out  of  the  rear  door  and  dropped  to  the  plat 
form  after  the  train  began  to  move  he  had  no  lilies, 
but  a  well-filled  pocket  of  coins  to  make  glad  some 
humble  Christian  home.  His  presence  had  brought 
light  to  scores,  and  turned  the  stifling  atmosphere 
to  fragrance,  their  ill-nature  and  suffering  to  happi 
ness  and  patience.  The  boy  was  an  illustration  of 
the  Christian.  The  lesson  I  learned  then  has  been  a 
boon  to  me  ever  since.  Really,  I  was  glad  myself 
that  I  got  left. 


Sunday  Railroading.  169 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
Sunday  Railroading. 

"J    JEL-LO-O-O,    Barson!      Hey,    hey,    hey! 
I—I      Barson !" 

*  *  I  turned  lazily  in  bed,  realizing  where 
I  was  and  that  it  was  just  about  daylight  Sunday 
morning. 

"Barson-n-n !"  again  floated  in  through  the  open 
window. 

Springing  to  the  floor  and  poking  my  head  out,  I 
replied  to  the  call-boy,  for  it  was  none  other  than  he, 
"What's  wanted?" 

"Report  to  the  office  at  eight !"  and  he  was  gone. 
I  watched  him  and  his  pony  out  of  sight  and  won 
dered  in  blank  amazement  with  eyes  fixed  in  space 
as  I  continued  to  hear  the  cuddle-up,  cuddle-up  hoof- 
beats  of  the  galloping  steed  on  the  asphalt  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance.  Absolute  quiet 
reigned.  The  June  morning  air  reminded  me  of  the 
days  agone,  when  with  stiff  muscles  I  used  to  lean 
out  of  the  little  window  at  Stoneman's  of  a  Sunday. 
Not  a  sound  then  disturbed  the  sacred  stillness,  save 
an  occasional  cackle  from  the  barnyard  harem,  the 
singing  of  birds,  and  the  rasping  clinks  of  Shack's 
chain  as  he  crawled  out  from  his  kennel.  It  all  came 
back  to  me  like  a  dream.  I  was  a  boy  again.  Just 


170  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

then  a  milk  wagon  came  rattling  down  the  street. 
The  spell  was  broken,  and  I  came  to  myself. 

To-day  is  communion  at  Embury  Church,  I 
mused,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  absent.  Besides,  it 
is  missionary  day  in  the  Sunday  school,  and  I  want 
my  boys  to  give  more  than  any  other  class  in  their 
grade.  But  I'll  be  there  though.  I  can  drop  in  at 
the  office  on  my  way  to  class  meeting  at  nine-thirty. 

"Will!  What  on  earth  you  doing  so  long  in  the 
draught  of  that  window?  You'll  catch  cold  even  if 
it  is  warm!" 

"Why,  Annie,"  as  I  rolled  back  into  bed,  "I'm  in 
a  quandary  to  know  why  I'm  wanted  at  the  office 
at  eight  this  morning.  I  certainly  have  no  misde 
meanor,  for  which  to  call  me  to  account,  and  they 
can't  want  me  to  work.  That  would  be  out  of  the 
question;  yet,  some  of  the  boys  heard  that  a  new 
crew  was  making  up  to  do  Sunday  excursion  work. 
But  they  wouldn't  take  me  off  a  through  run  for 
that  service.  I'll  take  another  nap  on  it,  anyway, 
and  trust  the  good  Lord  for  the  rest."  A  comfort 
able  snooze  followed. 

At  the  family  altar  that  morning  I  prayed  for 
divine  direction,  fully  assured  in  my  own  heart  that 
the  tangle  would  be  straightened.  At  eight  of  the 
clock  I  stood  before  the  trainmaster,  and,  with 
out  a  word,  received  a  slip  from  his  hand  with  this 
order : 

"Conduct  excursion  to  Mountdale  and  return. 
Leave  Coalville  9  A.  M.,  Mountdale  4  pf  M,  Take  six 


Sunday  Railroading.  171 

coaches  and  baggage  car.  Cobb,  engineer.  Engine 
694.  Helper  to  Summit,  581." 

I  was  dumb.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  I 
stammered,  "What  does  this  mean?" 

"Isn't  the  order  clear  to  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  run  on  Sundays." 

"If  the  order  is  plain,  obey  it.  The  promotion 
ought  to  satisfy  anyone."  Rising,  he  entered  the 
private  office  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him." 

"O  God!"  I  cried,  "has  it  come  to  this?  Lead 
me,  Father,  and  I  will  be  led  by  thee." 

Placing  the  order  in  my  pocket,  I  walked  out  to 
the  yard.  Finding  Cobb  and  the  rest  of  the  crew 
waiting  for  me,  I  proposed  a  bolt  en  masse.  The 
fireman's  opinion  corroborated  mine.  All  the  others 
said,  "Go,  or  we'll  lose  our  jobs." 

"Job  or  no  job,"  I  replied,  "I'm  going  to-day,  but 
I'll  never  run  a  Sunday  train  again  as  long  as  I  live. 
I  wouldn't  go  to-day  if  the  trainmaster  had  not  now 
made  it  impossible  for  me  to  see  him.  If  I'm  called 
out  again  a  week  to-day,  boys,  I  stay  at  home.  My 
services  are  at  the  option  of  the  company,  my  prin 
ciples  are  not." 

At  9  :c»5  we  pulled  out  of  Coalville  with  a  heavy 
load  of  pleasure-seekers.  The  majority  of  the  ex 
cursionists  were  churchless  and  godless,  unless,  per 
chance,  their  gods  were  Bacchus  and  Folly.  A  few 
sports,  gamblers,  and  debauchees  mingled  with  the 
throng,  also  a  few  church  members  who  cared  more 
for  a  "good  time"  than  they  cared  for  their  com- 


172  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

pany,  their  church,  home,  God,  or  his  day.  My 
morning  text  was,  "Go  not  with  the  multitude  to  do 
evil ;"  the  skeleton  of  my  sermon,  broken  command 
ments,  excess,  and  greed;  and  the  flesh  and  blood 
of  the  homily  were  the  things  I  saw  and  heard  dur 
ing  the  day. 

"This  Sunday  business  gives  a  fellow  that 
eternal  tired  feeling  we  read  so  much  of  in  patent 
medicine  books,"  yawned  one  of  the  trainmen  as 
we  lounged  in  the  shade  eating  our  dinners.  "It 
takes  away  all  my  morals,  and  I  never  had  any  to 
spare,  as  well  as  my  happiness  and  ambition,  the 
latter  never  at  a  premium  either.  Last  Sunday  I 
went  over  the  road  with  perishable  freight — a  rush 
train." 

"Coal,  I  suppose?"  said  the  fireman,  as  he  swal 
lowed  a  mouthful  of  coffee. 

"Certainly.  The  road  runs  more  coal  on  Sundays 
than  any  other  day  in  the  week.  There  ain't  no 
freight  in  the  way,  and  some  of  the  passenger  trains 
are  off,  so  that  there's  clear  sailin'.  Corporation 
conscience  covered  with  gold." 

"That's  right,  Jim!"  replied  the  honest  fireman. 
"Sunday  railroadin'  's  a  public  nuisance,  to  say 
nothin'  of  positive  wickedness.  There's  not  a  good 
feature  about  it  that  ain't  cloaked  by  wrongdoing. 
I'm  not  much  of  a  man,  but  I've  never  been  over 
the  road  of  a  Sunday  without  a  twang  o'  conscience. 
I'm  no  Christian,  and  never  will  be  's  long  's  I  work 
Sundays.  'Tain't  consistent.  I  s'pose  I'll  lose  all 


Sunday  Railroading.  173 

my  conscience  'f  I  keep  on.  Even  then  I  might 
slide  into  some  denominations  with  three  sheets 
in  the  wind,  but  that's  no  sign  I'd  find  all  sig 
nals  set  for  a  clear  track  when  I  come  to  the  pearly 
gates. 

"Lots  o'  the  railroaders  are  's  bad  's  the  company. 
Last  month  I  was  to  church  on  Sunday  mornin' — O, 
you  needn't  grin,  Jack,  I  do  get  to  the  place  o'  wor 
ship  once  in  a  while  whether  I  worship  er  not — as  I 
was  goin*  to  say,  down  there  in  that  little  church 
at  Rio." 

"You  mean  that  little  two  by  four ;  two  towers  at 
the  front  corners  bigger  'n  the  rest  o'  the  church, 
'bout  like  the  pillars  o'  Hurcules;  and  four  green 
blinds  on  a  side,  about  a  hundred  yards  above  the 
semaphore?" 

"That's  the  identical  temple,  Ed.  Well,  the  par 
son  was  pray  in'  at  a  fine  clip  and  had  reached  the 
Lord's  Prayer  without  an  interruption.  He  an'  the 
congregation  steamed  into  that  with  me  kind  o' 
taggin'  along,  when  73  came  down  the  hill  with 
Bill  Dempster  at  the  lever  of  old  461.  You  know 
her  whistle's  like  a  fog  horn !  She  was  poppin*  at  a 
hundred  and  sixty-five,  and  jest  as  the  people  said, 
Thy  kingdom  come,'  Bill  pulled  the  whistle  wide 
open  and  kept  it  there  till  he  got  to  the  semaphore. 
Everybody  finished  the  prayer  on  'is  own  hook 
an'  said  'Amen'  when  he  made  the  terminus.  It 
made  no  difference  whether  he  said  it  loud  or  low, 
nobody  could  hear  it  anyway,  an'  as  to  the  ear  o' 


174  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  Lord  I've  my  doubts  if  he  could  hear  in  such  a 
pandemonium  as  that. 

"But  that  was  not  half  so  bad" — gulping  down  a 
hunk  of  corn  bread  with  a  swallow  of  coffee — "half 
so  bad  's  it  happened  a  few  minutes  later.  We  was 
listenin'  to  a  fine  sermon  on  'Mount  Sinai,'  an'  the 
preacher  was  a  gettin'  in  the  arousements  by  com- 
parin'  the  trumpetlike  sound  from  the  mountain  to 
the  Gospel  bugle-blast  of  to-day  and  was  sayin',  'My 
friends,  the  voice  of  God  calls  to  you  to-day  in 
trumpet  tones  from  heaven,'  when — too-oo-oo-oo! 
went  the  milk  train  roarin'  down  by,  like  the  rays 
o'  light.  'Frum  hell,'  said  Zack  Tyler,  as  he  nudged 
me  'n  the  ribs.  He  spoke  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
by  the  preacher,  an'  as  soon  's  the  noise  stopped  the 
parson  continued :  'Yes,  an'  the  devil's  hustlin'  these 
days,  too.  Surely  he's  goin'  about  like  a  roarin' 
lion.'  I  tell  you  what,  boys,  when  I  hear  the  clankin' 
o'  the  connectin'  rod,  the  rattlin'  brake  irons,  an* 
grindin'  brakes  on  a  Sunday  it  makes  me  feel  's  if 
the  devil  was  comin'  with  clankin'  chains,  and  a 
grindin'  our  noses  on  the  very  rag  wheels  o'  hell. 
An'  what's  more,  we're  fools  enough  to  let  'im  rub 
'em  on,  good  an'  hard." 

"Well,  what  you  blowin'  about,  then?"  asked 
the  engineer.  "You  ain't  got  to  work  Sunday 
'f  you  don't  want  to.  Your  nose's  's  flat  's  any  of 
our'n." 

"I  know  it.  I'm  's  big  fool 's  anyone.  But  'tain't 
right,  jest  the  same,  an'  don't  begin  to  be  nec'sary. 


Sunday  Railroading.  175 

We're  all  'n  the  same  boat.  The  people  could  stop 
Sunday  trains  if  they  wanted  to.  In  most  States 
the  law's  agin  it.  But  because  somebody's  got  a 
pocket  full  o'  mun  we  take  off  our  hats  to  'em  and 
let  'em  walk  over  us  with  copper-toed  boots. 
'Twouldn't  be  so  bad  if  they  was  liberal  with  their 
gains,  but  they  ain't.  That  little  church  I  mentioned 
has  a  lot  uptown  an'  away  from  the  racket  o'  the 
road,  but  can't  afford  to  build  yet.  D'ye  s'pose  the 
company'd  donate  a  cent  ?  Not  a  red !  Stingier  'n 
old  Squire  Squeezer,  who  used  to  wash  the  whiskers 
he  shaved  off  his  brazen  face,  strain  off  the  water, 
'n'  bile  it  down  to  save  the  soap.  They'll  plead 
poverty  an'  say  they  can't  help  every  church  along 
the  line  or  they'd  be  bankrupt.  The  devil  ought  to 
pay  'is  way.  The  company  has  a  right  to  the 
ground,  but  it  hain't  got  a  lease  on  all  o'  God's  pure 
air  to  fill  it  with  gas  an'  sounds,  fit  only  for  the 
infernal  regions,  'specially  on  the  Lord's — " 

"What's  that?"  shouted  one  of  the  brakemen, 
hurriedly  covering  his  pail  and  running  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  picnic  grounds,  closely  followed  by  the 
rest  of  us.  The  noise  was  a  bedlam  of  human- 
fiendish  voices,  shouting,  cursing,  and  screaming,  a 
howl  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  corps  of  imps 
of  darkness. 

We  soon  reached  the  battlefield,  which  was 
drenched  with  blood  and  beer.  Collarless  males 
with  gory  faces  and  females  with  torn  dresses  and 
flowing  hair  withdrew  and  were  withdrawn  one 


176  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

from  the  other — all  vanquished,  all  victorious.  The 
fray  began  with  a  couple  of  sports,  maudlin  to  the 
degree  of  foolishness,  and  ended  in  a  free-for-all 
scrap,  in  which  bottles,  bowlders,  teeth,  tongues, 
fingers,  and  fists  became  weapons  of  a  promiscuous 
and  effective  warfare.  The  police,  for  their  part  of 
the  program,  rendered  a  few  free  numbers  and  re 
tired  without  an  encore,  carrying  their  arms  and 
fingers  in  the  manner  of  a  man  who  had  fallen  into 
a  cellar  drain  during  the  rainy  season.  One  of  the 
cops,  who  was  a  good  sort  of  a  fellow  and  was  down 
right  mad — for  he  possessed  a  temper  something 
like  yours  and  mine — rather  feelingly  remarked, 
still  holding  his  arms  akimbo  like  a  scarecrow,  "I 
wish  the  scum  o'  the  city  'd  stay  to  home !" 

"Say,  Mack,"  replied  another,  "these  are  the  whey 
we've  been  dealin'  with ;  the  cream  stays  to  home." 

A  faint  smile  flitted  across  the  offended  man's 
face  and  faded  to  a  serio-comic  expression,  while  he 
again  made  answer :  "That  may  be  so,  but  I'm  tired 
o'  this  Sunday  business.  Six  days  o'  labor  is  more 
'n  I  can  stand  and  keep  my  temper,  an'  when  it 
comes  to  doin'  police  duty  to  a  pack  o'  hudlums  like 
these  it's  enough  to  rile  a  saint,  an'  I'm  no  saint.  I 
like  to  go  to  church  myself,  an'  be  with  my  fam'ly. 
There,  boys,  you  go  on  home,  now,  like  good  little 
men,"  he  shouted  pleasantly  to  a  couple  of  little 
chaps,  who  whined  out,  "We've  come  to  see  you, 
pa.  Ma  said  we  could." 

"This  is  no  place  for  you  to-day,  so  go  on  home 


Sunday  Railroading.  177 

now,"  and  off  they  trudged,  hand  in  hand, 
sprinkling  the  walk  with  their  tears. 

Turning  to  us,  the  father  resumed :  "It's  mighty 
tough  to  be  forced  into  a  place  where  it  ain't  fit  for 
one's  children  to  be,  and  even  on  Sunday.  Two 
years  ago  we  had  as  nice  a  lot  of  young  people  here 
as  you'd  want  to  see.  Since  the  excursions  have  run 
here,  an'  more  especially  them  on  Sundays,  they 
seem  possessed.  'Bout  all  they  talk  of  is  the  per 
formances  on  the  picnic  ground.  The  railroad  brings 
up  a  car  o'  beer  an'  the  Park  company  let  them  sell 
it  here  without  a  license,  and  then  tell  us  poor  fools 
to  keep  the  excursionists  quiet.  Might  just  as  well 
lay  an  underground  fuse  to  a  ton  o'  dynamite  under 
a  dam,  set  it  afire,  an'  tell  us  to  keep  the  water  back. 
It's  devilish  business  anyway,  and  I  wisht  I  was  out 
of  it,"  and  he  sauntered  away  to  a  pump  as  if  to 
wash  off  the  stains  that,  evidently,  he  felt  and  knew 
were  beyond  the  reach  of  soap  and  water. 

"We'll  have  a  jolly  gang  to-night,"  carelessly 
laughed  one  of  my  brakemen  as  we  took  to  cover. 
The  rain  came  down  in  torrents  and  continued  for 
hours.  Many  of  the  picnickers  sought  shelter,  and 
many  more  seemed  oblivious  to  the  waters  without 
on  account  of  the  overflow  within.  We  left  the 
station  in  the  rain.  Imagine  the  plight  of  the 
passengers.  Words  are  expressionless.  In  many 
instances  I  was  forced  to  enter  the  pockets  of  pas 
sengers  to  obtain  their  tickets,  they  were  in  such  a 

helpless  state  of  intoxication.     Several  men  lay  in 
12 


178  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  baggage  car  like  brutes.  Near  the  end  of  our 
journey  many  awoke  from  their  stupor.  We  locked 
the  doors  to  keep  them  from  staggering  through  the 
aisles  from  car  to  car,  few  being  able  to  cross  the 
platform  of  the  moving  train.  The  work  was  finally 
done.  Reaching  home,  I  made  for  my  bathtub  and 
prayer  room,  for  I  had  done  dirty  work  that  day 
and  must  needs  be  renewed  in  body  and  soul. 


A  Runaway.  179 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
A  Runaway. 

"'I    Tl     7 HAT  you  got  there,  Dempster?" 

X/W  "Books!"  replied  the  fat  engineer, 

removing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  as 
he  stopped  in  front  of  my  gate.  "Coin'  to  school 
now,  Billy.  To-day's  exams,  fur  us  throttle- 
pullers." 

His  manner  was  imitative  of  the  pride  and  gusto 
of  a  ten-year-old  boy.  His  countenance  changed  to 
a  serious  look,  and,  leaning  over  the  fence,  he  con 
tinued:  "I'll  tell  you  my  opinion — it  may  be  right, 
it  may  be  wrong — it's  good  enough  for  me,  anyway, 
between  you  an'  me  an'  that  black  cat  over  there, 
these  new  rules  are  all  humbug.  The  idea  of  a  man 
fifty-five  years  old,  who's  railroaded  it  thirty 
years  an'  knows  every  spike  in  the  Mountain  Divi 
sion,  settin'  down  to  a  book  o'  rules  an'  learnin'  the 
hull  thing  over  again,  only  a  little  different.  The 
difference,  as  far  's  I  can  see — I  may  be  blind  's  a 
bat — ain't  no  improvement,  an'  jest  enough  to  raise 
the  devil.  We're  havin'  more  wrecks  these  days 
than  in  the  history  of  railroads.  Take  this  book  o* 
rules  for  the  block  system  they're  puttin'  in  now, 
an'  a  fellow  can  learn  more  'n  one  trip  over  the  road 
than  he  can  ever  learn  with  the  book  only.  I  tell 


180  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

you  railroadin'  's  got  to  be  learned  by  practice  an* 
not  by  theory.  Goll!  I'd  like  to  see  a  crew  that 
had  passed  an  examination  from  the  book  in  bang- 
up  style  start  out  over  a  familiar  road  with  nothin' 
new  but  the  semaphores  or  banjo  signals — I  don't 
care  which — an'  try  to  go  through.  The  first  block 
would  stop  the  train  an'  every  last  man  would  out 
with  his  book  an'  compare  it  with  the  signal  ahead. 
The  crew  'd  look  like  a  lot  o'  boys  gazin'  at  a  toy 
balloon.  But  the  system's  all  right,  and  the  book's 
all  right,  but  we're  goin'  hind  end  foremost.  You 
can't  beat  nothin'  into  these  college-bred  new 
managers.  They  mean  well,  know  enough,  an'  can 
make  books  which  we  old  duffers  can't,  but  they 
need  to  pound  over  the  road  in  a  freight  car  a  while 
an'  they'll  know  suthin'  o'  railroadin'.  Looks  like 
rain  er  snow !  Guess  I'd  better  jog  on." 

Such  was  the  general  opinion  of  the  old  rail 
roaders  concerning  the  new  management  of  the 
road.  The  pulling  of  rough,  old,  tried  and  true 
men  out  onto  an  ideal  system  run  by  men  who  were 
largely  theoretical  in  work  marked  a  change  so  vast 
that,  in  spite  of  everything,  accidents  frequently 
occurred. 

I  still  ran  as  sort  of  extra  conductor.  I  had  been 
off  duty  long  enough  to  get  a  good  sleep.  Pulling 
up  to  the  fire  and  taking  my  morning  paper,  I  set 
tled  down  to  take  my  ease  when  a  ring  at  the  door 
bell  interrupted. 

"You're  wanted  immediately  to  take  a  train  p* 


A  Runaway.  181 

coal  over  the  mountain,"  said  the  call-boy,  and  he 
was  gone. 

Hastily  packing  my  pail,  Annie  kissed  me  good 
bye  and  I  was  gone.  The  trainmaster  met  me  at 
the  yard.  His  flushed  face  revealed  a  smoldering 
fire.  Something  had  gone  wrong,  without  a  doubt, 
but,  being  accustomed  to  obey  orders,  I  asked  no 
questions. 

"Here,  Barson,  take  this  train  over  the  hill  to 
Bryson  as  wild-cat — everything's  O.  K.  to  pull  out. 
Blake's  your  engineer,  and  643  will  push  you,"  and 
he  was  gone. 

Looking  up  the  train,  I  saw  every  man  at  his 
post  and  the  crew  on  the  pusher,  all  waiting  my 
move.  Giving  the  signal  at  once,  we  steamed  out  of 
the  siding  onto  the  main  track.  The  pusher  bumped, 
and  we  were  on  our  way  up  the  mountain.  I  sat 
down  at  the  desk  and  looked  over  the  waybills. 
Everything  was  in  order.  Within  a  half  hour  my 
report  was  completed,  and  I  rose  from  the  desk. 
Peering  through  a  window,  I  saw  rain  falling,  an 
occasional  snowflake  or  hailstone  mingling  with  it. 

Just  then  the  conductor  of  the  pusher  hustled  into 
the  caboose.  As  he  shook  the  sleet  from  his  hat  he 
began:  "We're  gettin'  a  bad  rail  to-day,  Barson. 
Guess  you'll  have  some  fun  down  the  mountain. 
D'ye  know  what  sort  of  a  trap  you've  got  your 
foot  in?" 

"Trap?"  said  I,  in  astonishment,  "what  do  you 
mean  ?  I've  done  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary." 


182  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"No,  I  know  you're  all  O.  K.,  and  if  anything 
happens  the  boys  '11  stand  by  you,  but  do  you  know 
your  crew?" 

"Why,  no  one  but  Blake,  and  I  suppose  Leet,  who 
fires  for  him.  The  others  I  don't  know." 

"You've  got  a  green  crew  at  the  brakes,  an* 
more'n  that  you've  got  your  tonnage  all  right." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  we  had  a  heavy  load,  but  we  can 
hold  it  with  twenty  cars  of  air." 

"That  may  be,  but  there's  a  nigger  'n  the  fence 
somewhere.  You  know  this  is  Al  Lindley's  reg'lar 
run,  an'  he's  a  good  conductor,  none  better  ner  care- 
fuller.  He  came  out  this  mornin',  got  orders,  mad$ 
up  his  train,  saw  what  he  had  in  train  an'  crew,  ari* 
went  back  to  the  trainmaster  an'  said  he'd  like  at 
least  one  old  brakeman  or  less  load.  Well,  old  P.  D. 
flew  mad  an'  told  'im  to  go  with  what  he  had  or  go 
home.  Then  it  was  Al's  turn  to  flare  up,  an'  he 
flared.  'All  right,'  says  he,  'Mr.  Dictator,  I'll  go 
home;  and  takin'  up  his  mittens  walked  out  o'  the 
room,  leavin'  the  waybills  layin'  on  the  desk.  He 
came  over  to  the  caboose,  got  his  dinner  bucket  an' 
overcoat,  remarkin'  to  a  half  dozen  of  us  fellers  that 
he'd  not  take  the  hull  rollin'  stock  o'  the  road  over 
the  hill  for  nobody,  anyway,  with  a  green  crew. 
.We  knew  the  fat  was  in  the  fire.  No  sooner  'd  Al 
gone  than  Mr.  P.  D.  came  out  smokin'  like  a  hot- 
box.  Perkins  stood  near  us  quietly  pullin'  on  a 
cigar.  The  trainmaster  reached  out  his  bills  to  him, 
sayin',  'Will  you  take  this  train  over  the  mountain  ?' 


A  Runaway.  183 

You  know  Perk's  considered  one  o'  the  levelest 
heads  in  the  freight  service.  Well,  we  held  our 
breath  to  see  what  he'd  say.  Says  'e,  without  re- 
movin'  his  hands  from  his  pockets  an'  half  squintin' 
as  the  smoke  floated  over  'is  eyes,  an'  as  cool's  a 
cucumber — says  'e,  'Not  to-day,  Mr.  Dictator.'  The 
old  man  knew  that  that  meant  biz,  and  sent  the  call- 
boy  for  you.  So  you  see  where  you  be  an'  how  ye 
got  there.  I  tell  'e,  Barson,  it's  a  nasty  rail,  an'  if 
we  had  much  further  grade  to  climb  we'd  stall." 

Buttoning  his  heavy  coat  close  up  to  his  chin,  he 
opened  the  door.  He  hesitated  a  moment.  The 
cold  air  rushed  in  and  the  sleet  sissed  over  the  little 
stove.  Half  closing  it  behind  him,  he  called  back: 
"Good  luck  to  you!  A  fellow's  safer  to-day  on 
runners  than  on  wheels,"  and  he  was  gone. 

In  a  moment  we  broke  over  the  summit  and  drew 
away  from  the  pusher  as  it  backed  in  onto  the  Y. 
All  three  brakemen  were  out  on  the  train.  I  had 
cautioned  them  to  keep  the  speed  down  to  the 
minimum.  The  running  boards  were  a  glare  of  ice. 
Over  the  coal  a  thin  crust  had  formed.  The  brake 
wheels  were  slippery  and  covered  with  ice  also.  No 
man  could  move  on  the  top  of  a  box  car  when  the 
train  had  a  speed  exceeding  thirty  miles  an  hour. 
Wrapping  myself  in  my  thick  coat,  I  climbed  to  the 
lookout  to  see  what  was  going  on.  I  had  noticed 
that  the  steam  was  shut  off  as  we  ran  over  the  sum 
mit.  When  I  looked  out  the  engine  was  popping  and 
the  air  pump  working.  However,  the  speed  of  the 


184  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

train  increased.  On  a  straight  line  I  saw  Blake  pull 
the  engineer's  brake  handle,  but  felt  no  diminution 
of  speed.  Not  a  brakeman  had  touched  a  brake 
wheel.  I  opened  a  side  window  and  signaled  brakes. 
The  air  fairly  chilled  me  to  the  bone.  My  coat 
sleeve  was  cased  in  ice.  The  engineer  immediately 
whistled  brakes.  The  trainmen  began  to  move 
slowly  at  their  task;  they  could  do  no  otherwise. 
The  train  kept  increasing  its  speed.  Another 
straight  line  revealed  the  engineer  in  the  act  of  ap 
plying  the  emergency  brake.  This  I  felt  a  little, 
and  then  knew  that  he  had  but  few  cars  of  air. 
When  he  saw  the  effect  of  the  brakes  he  seized  the 
reversing  lever  and,  throwing  it  over,  opened  the 
throttle,  and  pulled  the  whistle  wide  open.  The  en 
gine  screeched  like  a  demon,  and,  working  against 
the  train,  rolled  and  plunged  like  a  race  horse, 
though  we  were  not  yet  running  at  more  than  thirty 
miles  an  hour.  This  was  altogether  too  fast  on 
such  a  rail,  for  we  were  comparatively  near  the  top 
of  the  hill.  Dropping  from  the  lookout,  I  sprang 
for  the  brake  of  the  caboose  and  screwed  it  with  all 
my  might.  The  flakes  of  ice  flew  from  the  rail  like 
hail.  Climbing  the  box  car  next  to  the  caboose,  I 
tightened  that  brake  but  felt  it  slip.  The  wheels 
had  been  accustomed  to  the  heavy  pressure  of  air 
and  were  so  smooth  that  a  hand  applkation  caused 
little  friction.  But  I  twisted  it  tighter  yet.  Then  I 
looked  over  the  train.  The  flagman  was  down  on 
the  cars  of  coal  turning  the  brake  as  best  he  could. 


The  Runaway  Freight. — Page  185. 


A  Runaway.  185 

The  two  other  brakemen  were  on  box  cars  hanging 
on  for  dear  life.  The  fireman  came  up  over  the  tank 
and  slowly  climbed  down  out  of  sight  to  some  gon 
dolas.  The  engineer  flew  wildly  about  the  cab,  not 
knowing  what  to  do  next.  I  began  to  crawl  along 
the  running  board  on  my  hands  and  knees.  It  was 
slow  work.  I  finally  made  the  length  of  a  car  with 
the  loss  of  a  mitten.  Clenching  the  brake  wheel,  the 
ice  cut  into  my  fingers.  To  turn  was  useless,  but  I 
turned.  The  sleet  came  in  sheets.  Speed  now  at 
least  fifty  miles  an  hour — the  whistle  wide  open. 
We  were  running  away.  Where  each  man  happened 
to  be  at  that  moment,  there  he  had  to  remain,  pro 
viding  he  could  grip  tight  enough,  for  to  move 
meant  to  slip,  and  to  let  go,  instant  death.  We 
passed  Romono  station  before  I  hardly  saw  it.  The 
operator  looked  wildly  out  of  the  window.  I  knew 
he  would  warn  the  stations  below,  if  possible,  and 
keep  the  track  clear  for  us. 

We  helplessly  waited  for  we  knew  not  what. 
Hands  were  clutching  icy  brakes  and  freezing  in  the 
grip.  Several  miles  of  grade  yet  lay  below  us. 
Would  we  keep  the  track?  The  engine  screamed 
and  rocked,  the  cars  creaked  and  tossed.  Now  and 
then  a  half- fastened  door  from  a  box  car  slipped 
from  its  bearings  and  flew  down  the  mountain  side 
like  a  shingle  in  a  gale.  On  a  sharp  curve  the  over 
loaded  gondolas  of  coal  hurled  their  freight  into  the 
air  like  showers  of  gravel.  The  brakeman  on  the 
coal  cars,  feeling  the  coarse  black  diamond  mingling 


186  On  the  Mountain  Division, 

with  the  piercing  sleet,  closed  his  eyes  and  held  the 
tighter.  At  times  the  train  seemed  rounding  a  curve 
on  its  outer  wheels.  The  opposite  motion  of  the 
next  curve  righted  it.  One  weak  flange  meant  in 
stant  derailment  of  everything  behind  it. 

Past  Warren's  Siding  we  flew,  and  in  less  than  a 
minute  the  steeples  of  Collins  appeared.  That  was 
the  foot  of  the  grade.  Just  at  the  entrance  to  the 
yard  lay  a  sharp  curve,  beyond  which  was  a  long 
trestle  on  a  wide  curve.  Could  we  pass  it  ?  Wheels 
could  never  keep  the  track  at  our  lightning  speed. 
There  was  but  a  moment  to  dread — the  curve  was 
in  sight.  I  saw  Blake  let  go  the  whistle  rope  and 
clutch  the  side  of  the  cab.  The  long  trestle  with  its 
dizzy  height  next  loomed  up  through  the  flying  sleet. 
The  absence  of  the  whistle  seemed  like  the  silence 
before  the  death  shudder.  I  saw  the  engine  strike 
the  curve  and  swerve  like  a  plunging  war  horse. 
The  middle  brakeman  held  to  his  brake  like  a  frozen 
corpse,  his  hat  off  and  long  hair  stiff  behind  him, 
cased  in  ice.  The  flagman  lay  half  buried  in  coal, 
with  white  face  turned  to  the  sky  and  bony  hands 
gripping  for  life.  "O  God !"  I  moaned,  breathed  a 
prayer,  and  closed  my  eyes. 

I  held  my  breath  an  instant  and  hung  on  for  dear 
life  as  the  box  car  reared  on  the  bend.  Another 
moment  and  I  felt  the  easy  spring,  and  heard  the 
humming  noise,  of  the  steel  trestle  beneath  the 
wheels.  I  opened  my  eyes.  The  straight  track  of 
Collins  yard  lay  before  us?  over  which  we  rushed 


A  Runaway.  187 

like  a  bullet  from  a  gun.  The  usual  chuck,  chuck, 
and  jar  of  the  trucks  over  the  frogs  of  the  switches 
were  scarcely  perceptible.  We  flew,  and  only  God 
controlled  our  wings. 

The  warmer  atmosphere  in  the  valley  and  the 
constant  use  of  the  tracks  in  the  yard  gave  us  a 
fairly  good  rail.  I  felt  the  train  slacken,  and  within 
three  miles  we  came  to  a  standstill.  I  seemed  in  a 
dream.  None  of  us  moved  until  the  crew  of  a  train 
standing  on  a  siding  by  which  we  had  stopped  cried 
out,  "Come  right  off,  boys,  and  we'll  'tend  to  the 
train." 

We  crawled  slowly  down  to  the  ground.  Friendly 
hands  assisted  us  into  the  caboose,  where  we  were 
stripped  of  our  icy  garments,  rubbed  and  warmed 
with  the  care  and  tenderness  of  a  mother.  Later  they 
took  us  back  to  Collins.  No.  5  landed  us  in  Coal- 
ville  at  six-twenty  in  -the  evening.  The  trainmaster 
met  us  at  the  platform  and  gave  each  of  us  a  hearty 
hand-shake.  His  actions  meant  more  than  words. 
He  had  learned  a  lesson ;  we  had.  The  news  of  the 
runaway  had  spread  over  the  town.  A  continuous 
ovation  attended  our  way. 

But  the  strain  was  too  great.  When  I  reached 
Annie's  arms  my  nerve  gave  way.  Time  will  never 
dim  the  memory  of  that  wild  ride  down  the  Moun 
tain  Division. 


188  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  Change* 

"When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees,  and  bees 

Is  a-buzzin'  aroun'  ag'in 
In  that  kind  of  lazy  go-as-you-please 

Old  gait  they  bum  roun'  in; 
When  the  groun'  's  all  bald  where  the  hayrick  stood, 

And  the  crick's  riz,  and  the  breeze 
Coaxes  the  bloom  in  the  old  dogwood, 

And  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees, — 
I  like,  as  I  say,  in  sich  scenes  as  these, 
The  time  when  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees !" 

YES,  it  is  springtime.    The  little  peach  tree  in 
our  back  yard  is  full  of  bloom.    Now  and 
then  a  gentle  May  breeze  hustles  through 
the  branches  and  a  cloud  of  pink  flakes  go  sailing 
away  over  the  garden.    The  green  bursts  out  on  the 
trees.    The  air  is  laden  with  the  sweetness  of  May. 
Everything  is  quiet.     The  plants  grow,  the  buds 
burst,  and  the  fragrance  floats. 

I  am  on  a  "lay-off."  In  our  sleeping  room  up 
stairs  Annie  lies,  white  and  still,  but  a  smile  plays 
around  her  mouth.  The  doctor  has  just  gone. 
Down  in  the  kitchen  Mother  Horton  and  good  Mrs. 
Conrad  are  rolling  up  in  soft  flannels  a  little 
wriggling  piece  of  humanity. 

"Be  still  as  any  mouse: 
There's  a  baby  in  the  house." 


A  Change.  189 

A  boy!  Not  a  brother,  but  a  son.  Is  it  any 
wonder  I  go  round  the  house  on  tiptoe?  Even  then 
I  cannot  attain  to  the  dignity  and  height  that  is  due 
me.  I  am  going  to  lift  the  fluffy  little  thing  now 
and  carry  it  up  to  mamma.  How  the  good  old 
dames  smile  at  my  awkwardness  and  stand  with 
their  hands  on  their  hips  gazing  at  me  as  I  ascend 
the  stairway.  Think  of  it!  We  three!  How  happy 
we  are ! 

Surely  a  change  has  come  to  our  home.  Our  cup 
of  joy  has  always  been  full,  but  now  it  is  enlarged 
and  overflowing.  I  have  a  son,  a  wife,  and  a  home. 
Somewhere  there  is  a  brother,  and  so  close  that,  at 
times,  I  can  almost  feel  his  presence.  My  fondest 
hopes  are  realized,  all  except  finding  my  elder 
brother.  Somehow,  somewhere,  sometime,  we  shall 
meet — meet  as  railroaders,  brothers. 

My  first  trip  over  the  road  after  Joe  came  to  live 
with  us — we  called  him  Joseph  after  Grandpa  Hor- 
ton — was  in  charge  of  an  excursion  train  to  Bryson. 
After  reporting  and  putting  away  the  train  I  de 
termined  to  look  up  old  friends.  I  had  about  five 
hours  in  town  before  returning.  I  stepped  into  the 
railroad  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  to  my  joy  received  a 
warm  welcome  from  my  old  friend  Neely.  His 
voice  had  the  mellowness  of  yore,  and  his  laugh  was 
the  same  healthful  tonic. 

"I  tell  you,  Billy,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  know 
my  wife  will  be,  too,  and  so  will  mother.  She's 
staying  with  me  now  since  father  died  last  winter. 


190  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

[You  must  take  dinner  with  us  today.  Let's  see! 
lYou've  been  away  from  here  about  five  years,  hain't 
you.  Hoo !  Don't  seem  but  yesterday  I  saw  you  in 
the  roundhouse,  as  green  's  grass  and  as  innocent 's 
a  lamb." 

A  long  blast  of  a  locomotive  whistle  uncon 
sciously  brought  our  watches  from  our  pockets. 
"One's  on  the  dot  to-day,"  spoke  Neely,  as  we 
slowly  walked  to  the  window  from  which  we  could 
look  down  upon  the  platform  of  the  station  and  see 
all  who  boarded  or  left  the  train  then  coming  to  a 
standstill. 

"Jim  keeps  old  400  as  slick's  a  whistle !"  remarked 
my  friend,  as  he  looked  over  the  locomotive  with  the 
innate  pride  of  a  careful  engineer.  "I  sometimes 
hanker  for  the  road  again,  if  I  could  be  regular  in 
my  habits,  but  I've  no  use  for  this  owling  round, 
day  and  night,  no  time,  any  time,  and  all  the  time — I 
say,  Billy,  ain't  that  Hank  Gilder  standing  over 
there  by  the  truck  ?  There  he  goes  up  to  the  engine 
and  is  shaking  hands  with  Shay.  Shay's  firing  400 
now.  Wa'n't  he  in  your  crew  when  Hank  conducted 
for  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "and  that  is  certainly  Hank 
Gilder,"  though  he  appeared  like  a  gentleman,  every 
inch  of  him.  He  had  left  Bryson  a  half  dozen  years 
previously  and  had  not  been  heard  of  since.  We 
concluded  to  watch  him  and  see  if  he  still  walked  in 
his  old  ways.  When  last  known  he  was  a  shiftless 
drunkard.  He  stood  on  the  platform  until  No.  I 


A  Change.  191 

was  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  as  if  wondering 
what  next  to  do.  He  glanced  at  the  door  of  a  saloon 
near  by  where  he  had  squandered  many  a  month's 
wages.  His  facial  expression  gave  evidence  that  the 
place  had  no  charm  for  him  any  longer.  He  hailed 
an  old  companion  who  went  by  toward  the  fated 
saloon.  At  first  Gilder  was  not  recognized.  Only 
an  instant  passed,  however,  before  he  was  warmly 
greeted  and  pulled  toward  the  open  door.  Gilder's 
face  lighted  with  a  smile.  He  still  held  the  hand  of 
the  laborer,  and,  pointing  toward  the  room  in  which 
we  were,  said  something  to  his  would-be  tempter 
that  made  him  blush  with  shame.  They  continued 
in  conversation  for  some  time.  When  they  separated 
it  was  with  a  promise  from  the  tippler,  who  went 
straight  home,  past  the  open  saloon  door,  while 
Gilder  crossed  the  court  and  came  up  the  stairs  into 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  rooms. 

It  was  a  delight  to  take  the  hand  of  a  man,  well 
dressed,  well  kept,  clean  shaven,  with  clear  eye  and 
complexion,  whom  I  had  formerly  known  as  a  sot. 
It  needed  no  logic  or  philosophy  to  tell  that  the  grace 
of  God  had  been  at  work  and  had  done  the  job 
thoroughly. 

"But  it's  'most  noon,  boys !"  broke  off  Neely,  "and 
wife  '11  be  looking  for  us.  We'll  go  up  to  the  house, 
and  then,  Hank,  after  we've  fed  the  body,  you  can 
tell  us  how  it  all  come  about." 

The  Neely  home  was  perfectly  familiar.  We 
spent  a  delightful  hour  at  the  table.  Adjourning  to 


192  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  sitting  room,  we  three  railroad  men  romanced, 
yarned,  and  visited.  Gilder  told  a  five-year-long 
story  of  absolute  happiness.  He  had  gone  West 
aimlessly  and  almost  hopelessly.  Wandering  one 
night  about  the  railway  station  in  Omaha,  money 
less,  cold,  and  hungry,  a  railroad  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secre 
tary  slipped  an  arm  into  his  and  led  him  into  the 
comfortable  rooms  of  that  organization.  Once  more 
treated  like  a  man,  his  better  nature  responded  to 
the  kindness.  In  less  than  a  week  he  was  soundly 
converted  to  God  and  braking  on  a  freight  train. 
He  immediately  wrote  his  family  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  promised  them  money  for  their  fares 
.West  after  the  first  pay.  He  kept  his  promise,  and 
within  a  year  was  as  comfortable  in  a  rented  house 
as  any  king  on  earth,  and  conducting  on  a  fast 
freight.  For  the  last  two  years  he  had  conducted  a 
passenger  train,  and  now  owned  a  fine  home  in  the 
suburbs  of  Omaha.  Two  weeks  before  his  arrival 
in  Bryson  his  train  had  been  wrecked  by  the  care 
lessness  of  a  drunken  engineer  on  another  train.  The 
nervous  shock  and  other  injuries  received  in  the 
smash-up  necessitated  a  two  months'  leave  of  ab 
sence.  Hence  he  was  resting  in  the  East  among  old 
friends  and  scenes. 

"No,  Ot!"  he  exclaimed  at  the  conclusion,  "I 
wouldn't  exchange  for  the  old  life  if  the  universe 
was  laid  at  my  feet  as  mine.  By  the  way,  what's 
become  of  Phil  Schleaser?" 

"O,  he  got  into  a  wreck  about  a  year  ago  and  left 


A  Change.  193 

the  road.  I  think  he's  running  that  old  groggery 
up  at  the  Junction." 

"Too  bad !  I  always  liked  Phil,  but  he  had  too 
good  an  opinion  of  himself  and  of  his  own  powers. 
He'll  find  out  some  day  that  his  moderation  will  be 
his  damnation.  Maybe  he's  found  it  out  already.  I 
once  admired  his  ability  to  drink  and  to  keep  sober 
and  cool  at  the  same  time,  but  it  drove  me  to  the 
wall.  I'd  been  a  different  man  long  before  if  there 
had  been  a  different  man  at  the  reversing  lever." 

"Look  here,  Gilder !"  I  interrupted,  "go  up  to  the 
Junction  with  me  this  afternoon  and  see  Schleaser. 
It  will  do  him  good  to  look  you  over  again." 

"It's  a  bargain,  my  boy !    When  do  you  leave?" 

"Three-thirty!" 

"All  right!  I'll  be  around.  Must  go  over  now 
to  see  my  wife's  folks  a  minute  to  let  them  know 
I'm  here.  Will  see  you  again,  Ot,  before  I  go 
back.  Farewell,  old  boy !"  and  the  happy  Christian 
departed. 

For  some  time  we  sat  in  silence.  At  last  Neely 
exclaimed,  "Behold  what  God  hath  wrought!" 

Two  minutes  before  leaving  time,  while  I  stood 
talking  with  my  engineer,  I  felt  a  light  touch  on 
my  arm  and  an  "O.  K.,  Billy,"  rang  in  my  ear  as 
Gilder  entered  the  baggage  car. 

We  ran  extra  and  our  first  stop  was  Sandy  Junc 
tion.  The  board  stood  against  us.  At  the  office  I 
received  orders  to  wait  for  No.  4,  after  which  pro 
ceed  on  the  east-bound  track  to  Canope.  There  hadf 
13 


194  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

been  an  accident  to  a  coaler  on  the  west-bound  track. 
That  would  delay  us  fifteen  minutes  if  No.  4  was  on 
time.  A  moment  later  the  Philadelphia  train  pulled 
into  the  Junction  and  discharged  her  passengers. 
•  Among  them  was  Schleaser,  blear-eyed  and  swag 
gering.  The  quick  eye  of  Gilder  took  in  the  situa 
tion  at  once.  He  met  his  old  engineer  as  he  stepped 
to  the  platform  and  took  the  proffered  hand  as  ten 
derly  as  a  mother  with  a  "Well,  Phil,  how  goes  the 
battle?" 

The  little  dark  fellow  shoved  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  over  his  left  ear,  squinted  his  eyes  in  the  old 
characteristic  manner,  and,  standing  unsteadily, 
looked  his  friend  over.  He  recognized  in  Gilder  the 
man  whom  he  had  booted  into  the  caboose  for  being 
drunk. 

"Ah-ah-h!  Ah-h!  I  see!  Hank,  old  bones,  how 
air  ye?  Didn't  know  y'  at  first,  with  yer  b'lt  shirt 
an'  broadcloth.  Come  over  t'  house — house  an* 
have  suthin'  fur  auld — auld  lang — syne.  Me  an' 
the  road's  had  a  fallin'  out  an' — an'  I'm  keepin'  a 
little  biz  over  here  on  the — on  the  corner.  Hank — 
say,  don't  tell  nobody,  but — see  that — my  feet's — I 
can't — confound  it ! — control  'em !" 

Gilder  gently  led  him  away  from  the  crowd  and 
drew  him  down  on  a  baggage  truck  at  the  rear  of 
the  building.  He  kindly  refused  the  entreaties  "to 
take  something,"  for  Schleaser  had  even  offered  him 
from  the  bottle  he  carried  along  with  him  "in  case 
o'  'mergency." 


A  Change.  195 

I  left  them  alone  and  strolled  back  into  the  office. 
"Four's  ten  minutes  late,  Barson,"  said  the  operator. 
That  gave  me  fifteen  minutes  yet  to  wait. 

In  the  meantime  the  engine  of  the  Philadelphia 
train  had  been  turned  and  was  coupling  on.  I 
leisurely  watched  the  proceedings  until  the  brakeman 
had  finished  the  coupling  and  stepped  back  from  be 
tween  the  car  and  the  tender,  calling  out  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  train,  "All  right,  Charlie!  Try 
the  air!" 

I  saw  the  tubes  throb  and  relax  as  the  release  let 
the  air  out  hissing,  and,  turning  on  my  heel,  walked 
back  to  the  rear  of  the  train  and  entered  into  con 
versation  with  the  conductor.  The  entire  crew  were 
strangers  to  me.  Looking  down  the  train  (I  can 
see  him  as  plainly  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday),  I 
took  particular  notice  of  the  youthfulness  of  the 
engineer,  who  had  left  his  cab  and  stood  with  the 
fireman  watching  Gilder  and  Schleaser. 

"Your  engineer  looks  almost  like  a  boy,"  I  re 
marked  to  the  conductor. 

"He  does  appear  boyish  in  looks,  but  he's  every 
inch  a  man  at  the  throttle.  He's  a — " 

A  rush  of  the  crowd  around  the  corner  in  the 
direction  of  the  truck  interrupted  our  conversation. 
The  throng  gathered  to  watch  the  sorrowful  and  de 
bauched  face  of  Schleaser,  wet  with  tears.  He 
wailed  in  an  agony  of  grief  over  a  stinging  con 
science.  Gilder  had  talked  to  him  so  kindly  and  yet 
so  truthfully  that  his  sins  appeared  to  him  like 


196  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

demons.  With  a  groan  and  a  spring  he  jumped 
from  the  truck,  drew  the  bottle  from  his  pocket,  and 
hurled  it  from  him  with  all  his  might,  crying,  "God 
helpin'  me,  I'll  never  touch  another  drop— no,  not 
another  nip!" 

Simultaneously  from  the  other  side  of  the  plat 
form  rose  a  scream.  A  girl  of  perhaps  ten  years  of 
age  staggered  and  fell  with  blood  streaming  from  a 
deep  cut  in  her  cheek  where  the  cruel  bottle  had 
landed.  The  young  engineer  seized  her  and  carried 
her  to  the  waiting  room  just  as  No.  4  whistled  and  I 
hurried  away  to  my  train. 


Another  Change.  197 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Another  Change. 

"  y^~>  OOD-BYE,  papa!    Sthe  me  go  bellyflap- 

I      T     per,  lickity  jingle,  wight  into  our  yard!" 

^— ^  And  away  went  five-year-old  Joe  down 
the  hill  and  straight  through  the  gate.  The  same 
motion  that  brought  him  to  his  feet  also  scooped 
some  snow  into  his  mouth  with  a  red  mitten,  as  he 
shouted  again  and  waved  his  hand,  "Good-bye, 
papa !" 

Just  behind  him,  in  the  window,  beamed  the  face 
of  Annie.  On  her  knee,  with  white  nose  flattened 
on  the  window  pane,  sat  little  year-and-a-half-old 
Jennie,  swinging  her  arms  and  laughing  at 
"bruver  in  no." 

I  was  on  my  way  to  work  and  had  drawn  Joe  on 
his  sled  to  the  top  of  the  grade  in  the  alley  and 
watched  him  coast  down — a  thing  he  never  did  un 
less  I  was  near  to  see  that  he  had  no  collision  with 
passing  teams  or  pedestrians.  This  was  a  rare  treat 
for  the  little  fellow,  and  especially  with  his  new 
sled,  a  recent  gift  from  Santa  Claus.  When  alone 
he  played  contentedly  in  the  back  yard,  but  with 
papa  it  was  his  delight  to  "wide  in  'e  ally." 

Waving  an  adieu  to  the  sweet  trio,  at  the  foot  of 
the  slope  I  turned  my  steps  toward  the  station.  I 


198  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

now  conducted  on  two  through  trains,  2  and  7, 
leaving  Coalville  at  9  A.  M.,  and  returning  at  mid 
night.  I  made  the  trip  three  times  a  week,  always 
off  on  Sunday. 

The  wind  blew  piercingly  from  the  northeast, 
cutting  to  the  very  bone.  An  occasional  flake  of 
snow  whisked  by  like  skirmishers  before  a  great 
battle.  Buttoning  my  coat  tighter,  and  musing  that 
the  weather  forecast  was  snow,  I  quickened  my  pace. 

Coming  from  the  west  the  train  was  full.  Many 
were  returning  from  their  holiday  visits,  and  among 
others  a  dozen  or  more  students  to  their  several 
places  of  learning.  We  could  scarcely  get  along 
without  the  college  boys  and  girls,  their  merry  wit 
and  genial  manners ;  yet,  like  all  other  flocks,  it  has 
some  black  sheep.  It  may  be  of  necessity  or  other 
wise.  They  are  there,  at  any  rate. 

I  was  busy  for  several  stations  and  aside  from 
collecting  and  punching  tickets  noted  nothing  but 
the  happy  greetings  of  friends.  In  an  hour  the 
rush  was  over.  The  laugh  and  shouts  of  the  jolly 
boys  subsided  and  the  conversation  hushed  to  the 
low  hum-buzz  so  familiar  to  a  railway  day  coach. 
Chums  naturally  fell  together.  Minutes  whirled 
away  as  they  planned  what  they  would  "take  up 
next  term."  The  delegation  represented  several  in 
stitutions—each  championing  his  own  as  supreme. 
Two  from  old  Wesleyan  withstood  three  from  Yale, 
while  one  each  from  Columbia,  Brown,  Princeton, 
and  Harvard  kept  the  pace  for  his  alma  mater.  Ere- 


Another  Change.  199 

long  this  grew  monotonous.  The  conversational 
topic  became  the  weather,  now  made  conspicuous  by 
a  blizzard  sweeping  over  the  barren  mountain  region 
through  which  we  ran.  This  turned  the  discussions 
to  winter  scenes,  sleigh  rides,  and  sobered  them  up 
with  home  memories.  While  one  long-winded,  love-i 
sick  fellow  spun  his  yarn  with  the  flourish  of  a  fop, 
a  curly-headed  humorist  from  Wesleyan  slid  down 
into  the  cushions  with  his  knees  against  the  seat 
ahead,  and,  pulling  his  soft  hat  over  his  eyes,  began 
softly  to  hum  "Stars  of  the  Summer  Night,"  so  fa 
miliar  to  every  collegian.  A  long-necked  fellow 
from  Yale  moaned  his  basso  profundo,  and  across 
the  aisle  the  Princetonian  and  Columbian  with  first 
bass  and  tenor.  The  fop  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  exciting  scenes  of  his  sleigh-ride  when  the 
quartet,  having  felt  their  way  until  satisfied  that  they 
had  the  key  and  could  pull  out  a  swell  or  two,  burst 
into  full  tone.  The  story  ended.  With  that  as  a 
starter  the  boys  sang  on,  from  the  "Bulldog  on  the 
Bank"  ad  infinitum.  Two  of  the  Yale  boys  who 
could  not  sing  finally  proposed  a  smoke.  Jerking 
the  bright-faced  lad  from  Brown,  they  said,  "Come 
on,  Ben.  You'll  take  a  hand!  Come  on!" 

Bennie  shook  his  head  and  a  pink  tinge  crept  into 
his  cheeks. 

"What's  'e  matter?  Been  to  church  or  are  you 
tied  to  ma's  apron  strings  ?" 

The  pink  deepened  to  crimson  and  faded  to  ashy 
whiteness.  His  eyes  flashed  as  he  spoke,  so  that  the 


200  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

tempter  knew  what  he  meant:  "I'm  done  with  the 
smoker  and  the  whole  outfit.  I  may  be  tied  to 
mother's  apron  string,  certainly  not  to  you." 

"Hell  ne'er  devised  a  blacker  art 

Than  that  which  seeks  to  smother 
The  fires  that  glow  in  youth's  warm  heart — 

Of  loyalty  to  mother ! 
And  heaven  no  brighter  ornament 

Has  given  our  race,  my  brother, 
Than  that  brave  son  whose  confidante 

And  'sweetheart'  is  his  mother !" 

The  curly-headed  singer  started  "Home,  Sweet 
Home."  Four  of  the  others  rose  and  went  forward 
into  the  smoker.  When  the  quartet  concluded  the 
song  many  faces  were  turned  to  the  storm  without 
the  rushing  train,  and  an  occasional  tear  stole  down 
the  cheeks  of  elderly  persons,  who,  in  memory,  lived 
over  the  happy  scenes  of  childhood  and  youth. 

We  stopped  at  Netherton,  the  storm  still  raging 
furiously.  Only  an  old  mountaineer,  who  entered 
the  smoker,  boarded  the  train.  When  I  left  the  day 
coach  to  get  his  ticket  the  quartet  was  singing 
"Where  is  My  Wandering  Boy  To-night  ?"  I  found 
four  wanderers,  wreathed  in  the  noxious  fumes  of 
cigarettes,  gathered  about  a  board  and  engaged  in 
a  game  of  pedro.  My  heart  ached  for  them.  If 
mothers  had  only  known  where  the  boys  were, 
and  if  the  boys  had  only  known  the  heartaches 
of  the  mothers,  how  different  might  have  been  the 
scene.  An  hour  passed.  Wine  had  gone  around, 


Another  Change.  201 

Eyes  usually  calm  and  steady  grew  red  and 
blinking.  Cheeks  flushed.  The  hollow  laugh  went 
round. 

Near  them  sat  four  men  who  poured  out  the  wine 
in  quantities  and  played  for  stakes  with  steadier 
nerves,  a  coolness  and  deliberation  that  meant  ulti 
mate  destruction  to  player  and  a  stumbling-block  to 
the  youths  who  witnessed  the  game.  Their  habits 
were  fixed ;  the  boys  were  learning  how — imitators, 
objects  of  pity,  they. 

At  the  railway  terminus  the  students  went  their 
several  ways.  How  different  the  two  groups !  Had 
there  been  a  banker  or  railroad  president  on  board 
the  train  that  day,  to  which  company  would  he  have 
intrusted  his  wealth  or  responsibility?  To  me,  an 
ordinary  railroader,  life  is  made  up  of  little  things, 
the  innumerable  threads  of  warp  and  woof.  Every 
movement  flies  the  shuttle  and  trails  a  fiber  of  char 
acter,  either  of  use  or  abuse,  of  righteousness  or  sin, 
of  beauty  or  deformity.  The  end  of  life  reveals  a 
fabric  of  usefulness,  cleanliness,  and  beauty  propor 
tionate  to  the  filaments  of  gold  woven  therein.  Time 
runs  the  loom  that  never  ceases  its  clanking  until  the 
eternal  whistle  blows  "quit"  and  the  machinery  stops 
forever. 

"We'll  not  see  our  'sweethearts'  to-night,  Billy," 
said  my  engineer  to  me  when  I  handed  him  our 
orders  at  Bryson.  "Statler  just  come  over  the 
mountain  and  says  the  cuts  is  fillin'  like  smoke  an* 
it's  a  snowin'  an'  blowin'  like  a  two-year-old  blis- 


202  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

zard.  We'll  be  apt  to  git  a  couple  o'  helpers  at 
Collins  an'  a  snowplow  to  boot.  If  we  can't  go  over 
then  we'll  sock  'er  right  through  the  top  o' 
the  hill." 

On  account  of  the  heavy  storm,  and  consequently 
few  passengers,  we  had  but  four  coaches  and  a  helper 
to  Collins.  There  a  snowplow  and  another  locomo 
tive  hooked  on.  The  wires  somewhere  over  the 
hill  were  down,  but  we  knew  that  no  freight  would 
move,  and,  besides,  we  had  the  right  of  way.  On 
we  lumbered.  At  times  the  plow  buried  itself  in  the 
drifts. 

Three  miles  beyond  Notchview  was  a  cut  noted 
for  its  ability  to  collect  snow.  Temporary  drift- 
fences  had  been  placed  along  its  sides,  and  we  hoped 
to  find  it  comparatively  clear.  Running  as  we  were 
on  the  west-bound  track,  we  caught  the  heaviest 
drifts,  for  the  wind  blew  from  the  northeast.  This 
proved  the  exact  quarter  for  the  wind  to  miss  the 
fence  and  fill  the  cut.  We  rushed  the  bank  at  full 
speed.  The  train  slowed.  More  steam  was  ap 
plied.  The  heavy  pressure  forced  the  plow  further 
and  further,  slower  and  slower,  until  it  stopped. 
Silence  reigned.  It  was  broken  by  the  gale  that 
howled  and  whistled  around,  over,  and  between  the 
cars,  while  the  snow  poured  onto  the  north  side  of 
the  train  in  solid  sheets.  Jumping  and  catching  the 
bell  rope — for  I  was  too  short  of  stature  to  reach  it 
ordinarily — I  signaled  to  back.  Toot-toot-toot! 
came  from  one  engine,  then  another,  and  another, 


Another  Change.  203 

growing  fainter  and  fainter,  until  the  whistle  from 
the  plow  sounded  muffled  in  a  snowdrift.  This  was 
followed  by  a  pop  from  one  locomotive,  then  an 
other.  We  did  not  lack  for  steam.  We  heard  the 
steam  hissing  from  the  cylinder  cocks  as  if  escaping 
into  a  cave.  A  moment  passed.  We  moved  a  little 
and  finally  backed  out  onto  a  fill,  where  it  seemed 
that  the  wind  would  lift  the  train  from  the  track. 
The  passengers  crowded  about  me  and  plied  me  with 
a  dozen  questions  at  a  time.  My  only  answer  was 
that  we  were  going  through  if  possible,  and,  if  not, 
we  would  be  perfectly  safe  in  the  cars  until  relief 
came. 

We  were  yet  on  a  little  upgrade,  with  less  than  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  for  a  flying  start.  The  flag  was  out 
a  few  rods,  but  no  living  being  was  safe  very  far 
from  shelter  that  night.  We  slowly  backed  to  the 
last  drift  we  had  passed  on  our  way  up.  I  signaled 
"Go  ahead !"  The  drivers  had  scarcely  time  to  clear 
themselves  from  the  snow  before  they  were  into  it 
again.  This  time  we  went  a  little  further.  About 
one  more  buck  we  thought  would  put  us  through. 
When  we  backed  the  second  time  the  snowplow 
was  found  to  be  off  the  rails.  This  delayed  us  so 
long  that  before  we  were  ready  to  move  again  the 
cut  was  as  full  as  ever  with  the  hard-packed  snow  at 
the  bottom.  Another  forward  move  was  useless. 
We  backed  onto  the  fill,  kept  steam  at  good  pressure 
through  the  cars,  and  turned  in  for  the  night,  re 
lieving  the  flagman  at  brief  intervals,  though  we 


204  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

were  sure  nothing  would  reach  us  that  night  but 
Boreas  and  his  feathered  ice. 

Toward  morning  the  wind  sank  to  a  breeze, 
shifted  to  the  west,  and  died.  The  clouds  broke, 
separated,  and  scurried  away.  Stars  twinkled  in  the 
deep  blue,  like  glinting  diamonds.  Orion  had  one 
foot  below  the  western  horizon  when  faint  streaks  of 
dawn  appeared  over  the  eastern  mountain,  like  sun- 
tipped  bayonets  above  frowning  battlements  of 
marble.  The  east  kindled  and  flashed,  brightened 
and  glowed  until  the  sun,  glorious  in  its  garments 
of  fire,  rolled  above  the  cold,  white  mountain  ridge. 
The  purple  in  the  west  had  faded  with  the  stars. 
Three  colors  predominated — blue  above,  white  be 
low,  gilded  with  the  golden  shafts  of  the  sun.  Far 
down  the  mountain  slope  a  column  of  blue  smoke 
curled  skyward,  locating  the  home  of  a  mountaineer. 
were  stranded  on  a  snowy,  frozen,  billowy  sea. 


BROTHERHOOD. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
A  dew. 

WE  could  do  nothing  but  wait.  Fortune 
favored  us  in  that  the  buffet  car  had 
not  been  cut  out  at  Collins.  We  were 
in  no  immediate  danger  from  starvation.  Two  miles 
of  snow  lay  between  us  and  the  summit,  the  nearest 
station,  and  for  all  we  knew  the  nearest  dwelling. 
One  of  our  brakemen,  a  strong  young  man,  volun 
teered  to  go  over  and  seek  news  from  the  outside 
world.  We  who  remained  behind  organized  into  a 
mutual  benefit  society  and  established  the  system  of 
community  of  goods;  at  least,  as  far  as  food  was 
concerned.  The  best  of  humor  prevailed.  Conver 
sation  sprang  up  between  strangers,  strangeness 
grew  into  acquaintance,  acquaintance  ripened  into 
friendship.  Stories  and  laughter  went  the  rounds. 
The  children  romped,  the  young  people  billed  and 
cooed,  and  the  old  folks  visited. 

A  little  apart  from  the  others  I  entered  into  con 
versation  with  a  middle-aged  man  who  once  had 
been  a  railroader.  In  a  wreck  he  became  disabled 
by  losing  a  part  of  a  foot.  When  I  met  him  he  rep- 


206  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

resented  a  Chicago  wholesale  house.  Not  many 
minutes  passed  before  I  bored  him  with  my  hobby — 
an  elder  brother.  He  listened  patiently,  even 
with  interest. 

"Where  were  you  from,  originally?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "My  first 
recollection  is  of  an  old  house  not  very  many  miles 
from  an  orphanage  in  eastern  Pennsylvania.  I  pre 
sume  I'm  a  native  of  that  State.  As  for  my  rela 
tives,  I  never  knew  of  any." 

"Your  name  is  Barson?"  he  continued.  "Well, 
that's  an  odd  name.  I  never  heard  it  before.  There 
is  something  about  your  motions,  though,  that  re 
minds  me  of  somebody  I've  seen,  but  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  tell  who.  Your  features  seem  familiar, 
too,  except  those  pockmarks — pardon  the  allusion. 
I'm  not  superstitious  in  the  least,  and  therefore  have 
not  much  faith  in  your  feeling  or  presentiment,  or 
whatever  you  call  it.  It  would  be  strange,  however, 
if  you  had  no  relatives  in  the  world.  I  don't  know 
of  anyone's  being  born  without  at  least  one  father 
and  one  mother.  It  would  be  in  the  course  of  nature 
to  have  brothers  and  sisters.  I'll  remember  you  and 
keep  my  eyes  open.  If  anything  does  turn  up  I'll 
let  you  know,"  he  concluded,  as  I  hurried  out  for 
news. 

The  scout  had  returned.  Several  lads  from  Sum 
mit  accompanied  him.  They  brought  more  pro 
visions  and  reported  the  road  open  through  from 
Summit  and  a  hundred  or  more  laborers  with  shovels 


A  Clew.  207 

working  toward  us.  The  wind  had  done  its  heaviest 
work  just  over  the  brow  of  the  mountain  where  we 
lay  snowbound.  Several  miles  down  the  slope  we 
saw  the  steam  from  a  locomotive  toiling  along  in 
our  rear,  now  stopping,  now  proceeding.  Noon 
passed.  The  dinner  hour  was  well  seasoned  with 
jokes.  Keen  appetites  added  zest  to  the  repast.  We 
anticipated  a  speedy  liberation  from  blockade  duties. 
The  sun  hung  low  in  the  west,  and  not  a  sign  of  a 
human  being  came  near  us  except  an  old  hunter  and 
his  dog.  Which  of  the  two  was  the  more  surprised 
at  seeing  us  snugly  tucked  up  in  a  snowbank  is  hard 
to  tell.  The  dog  sniffed  and  barked  a  few  times, 
each  bark  raising  him  from  his  forefeet  like  the  re 
coil  of  a  gun.  The  hunter  slowly  slipped  his  rifle 
from  his  shoulder,  as  if  he  had  sighted  a  deer.  He 
shifted  an  enormous  quid  of  the  weed  to  the  other 
cheek,  defiled  the  beautiful  snow  with  expectoration, 
doffed  his  greasy  hat  sufficiently  to  scratch  his 
greasier  head,  and,  with  a  farewell  squint  of  his 
bullet  eyes,  shouldered  his  gun  and  waded  off  down 
the  mountain,  followed  by  the  satisfied  cur. 
.  Just  at  sunset  report  came  that  the  shovelers  were 
in  the  last  drift  ahead  of  us.  An  engine  and  snow- 
plow  soon  followed  them.  We  watched  the  crescent 
new  moon  hang  in  the  amber  west  like  a  silver 
censer.  Slowly  the  moon  slipped  out  of  sight  be 
hind  the  cold  mountain  tops,  softened  by  the  purple 
shadows.  We  lighted  the  lamps  and  ate  the  last 
assignment  of  rations.  The  twilight  and  lamplight 


208  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

sobered  us.  The  children  were  tucked  away  in  quiet 
corners.  One  loving  mother  sang  a  low,  sw/eet 
lullaby  to  a  nursing  infant.  Bundling  into  my 
greatcoat,  I  went  forward  to  note  the  progress  of 
the  relief  corps.  Everything  was  done  that  could 
be  done.  At  the  present  the  outlook  was  that  mid 
night  would  still  find  us  on  the  fill.  At  10  o'clock  a 
headlight  shone  on  the  rear  of  our  train.  The 
slumbering  passengers  roused  to  inquire  what  had 
happened,  and,  on  being  informed,  snuggled  down 
into  the  seats  again  and  dozed  off  to  dream  of  home 
and  friends. 

At  one  o'clock  the  roadmaster  told  me  that  the 
road  was  clear.  The  locomotives  had  been  carefully 
looked  over,  and  all  couplings  carefully  examined 
and  tested.  Swinging  my  lantern  from  the  front 
platform,  we  started.  The  drift  that  had  blocked 
us  was  above  the  top  of  the  train  as  we  passed 
through  it.  After  thirty  hours  of  delay  we  again 
sped  over  the  rails. 

At  the  summit  the  two  helpers  and  snowplow 
were  taken  off.  We  took  water  and  rumbled  on 
down  the  mountain,  a  long  grade  of  forty  miles  .to 
Coalville.  We  had  passed  Rio,  the  last  stop  before 
the  end  of  our  division.  I  had  gone  through  the 
cars  and  sat  down  to  assort  and  arrange  my  tickets 
when  my  drummer  acquaintance  came  to  me  in  evi 
dent  excitement : 

"Say,  conductor,  Fve  thought  of  that  fellow  and 
where  I  saw  him.  I  dozed  off  a  while  ago  and  he 


A  Clew.  209 

came  back  to  me  like  a  flash.  Then  I  seemed  to  be 
awake  and  had  not  been  to  sleep  at  all.  But  it's  all 
straight  in  my  mind  now,  anyhow.  By  George!  I 
believe  he's  your  brother,  too,  come  to  think 
about  it." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  all  about  him,"  I  ex 
claimed.  "Go  on !" 

"It  was  about  five  years  ago  I  was  running  with 
a  crew  whose  fireman  was  a  little  fellow,  little  larger 
than  you,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  didn't  look  like 
you — perhaps  a  little  better-looking.  But  his  name 
was  Parson — Charlie  Parson — and  he  was  quite  a 
parson,  too.  He  was  a  dandy,  as  good  a  lad  as 
ever  heaved  coal.  He  never  said  anything  about 
himself  or  his  folks,  only  as  he  was  asked.  I 
pumped  this  much  out  of  him  one  day,  that  his 
parents  were  dead,  and  that  he  once  had  a  younger 
brother  who  died  in  infancy." 

Too-oo-oo-oo ! 

"There's  the  whistle  for  Coalville,  where  I  must 
leave  you.  Can't  you  stay  with  me  to-night?  I 
want  to  know  more  about  this  Parson  you  tell  of." 

"No !  I  ought  to  have  been  in  Buffalo  yesterday. 
Can't  possibly  remain  along  the  road  a  minute.  Tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  When  I  get  home  I'll  write  the 
engineer  and  conductor  of  our  crew  and  find  where 
the  little  fellow  is,  and  then  I'll  let  you  know 
at  once." 

"That  'ill  do,"  I  said,  "but  don't  be  fooling  about 

it.     I  want  the  facts  in  the  case,  and  quick,  too. 
14 


2 10  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Shall  look  for  a  letter  from  you  every  day  till  it 
comes.  Good-bye!  Stop  off  sometime  when  you 
come  this  way  again,"  and  slipping  a  dollar  into  his 
hand  for  postage,  which  he  returned,  "immediately 
and  at  once,"  as  Samantha  Allen  would  say,  I  hur 
ried  away. 

Never  did  home  seem  so  like  home  as  it  did  that 
morning.  I  was  tired  and  worn  out,  but  could  not 
sleep  for  thoughts  of  my  elder  brother. 


Suspense.  211 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Suspense* 

YOU,  my  reader,  know  the  feeling  when  the 
messenger  boy  hands  you  a  telegram. 
Instantly  you  think  over  the  wide  circle  of 
friends  and  ask  yourself,  What  can  be  the  news 
within?  Is  it  good  or  is  it  bad?  Who  is  the  for 
tunate  or  the  unfortunate  ?  It  seemed  that  I  carried 
around  in  my  hand  a  telegram  the  seal  of  which  I 
could  not  break.  For  weeks  I  waited.  Not  one  word 
came  from  the  traveling  man  concerning  my  elder 
brother,  though  news  of  him  was  of  the  utmost  im 
portance  to  me.  The  months  dragged  on  in  awful 
suspense. 

At  last  I  wrote  a  letter  of  inquiry  to  the  address 
of  my  friend.  Within  a  week  I  received  a  note  from 
his  wife  that  her  husband  for  a  long  time  had  been 
lying  at  the  point  of  death  in  a  hospital  at  St.  Louis, 
there  from  injuries  received  in  a  trolley  wreck.  She 
knew  nothing  about  my  case.  I  could  read  between 
the  lines  that  her  own  heart  was  breaking.  My 
suspense  was  not  to  be  compared  for  a  moment  with 
hers.  In  fact,  her  sorrow  relieved  me,  and  hope  yet 
lighted  my  way.  Bitterness  against  the  honest 
drummer  vanished,  and  only  sympathy  for  his  griev 
ing  wife  remained.  With  the  last  drifts  lying  upon 


212  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  northern  hills  leaking  away  their  lives,  and  with 
the  smiling  liverwort  and  arbutus  pushing  up  from 
the  warming  earth,  I  became  myself  again.  Later 
on  came  those  soft,  smoky  days  when  the  brooks 
murmur  sweetly  and  the  harbingers  of  summer 
warbled  from  every  tree  top.  The  patches  of 
winter  grain  grew  green,  and  the  plowman  whistled 
behind  the  lazy  horses  as  he  followed  along  the  hill 
side  in  the  fresh  furrows.  I  felt  much  as  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  must  have  felt  when  he  wrote : 

"When  the  whole  tail-feathers  o'  Wintertime 

Is  all  pulled  out  and  gone, 
And  the  sap  it  thaws  and  begins  to  climb, 

And  the  swet  it  starts  out  on 
A  feller's  forred,  a-gittin'  down 

At  the  old  spring  on  his  knees — 
I  kind  o'  like  jest  a-loaferin'  roun' 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees — 
Jest  a-potterin'  roun'  as  I-dum-please — 
When  the  green,  you  know,  gits  back  in  the  trees !" 

Every  trip  we  made  was  through  a  changeable 
world.  May  came  and  went  so  quickly  that  before 
we  knew  it  everything  was 

"Jest  a-bilin'  full  of  June, 

From  the  rattle  of  the  cricket,  to  the  yallar-hammer's  tune ; 
And  the  catbird  in  the  bottom,  and  the  sapsuck  on  the  snag, 
Seems   ef  they  can't — od-rot-'em ! — jist   do   nothin'    else   but 
brag!" 

During  that  delightful  month  Annie  and  the  chil 
dren  spent  a  fortnight  up  at  Summerfield.  Little 
Joe  was  overanxious  to  visit  his  grandparents. 


Suspense.  213 

"There's  too  much  said  about  my  clothes, 

The  scoldin'  's  never  done — 
I'm  goin'  back  down  to  gran'pa's, 

Where  a  boy  kin  have  some  fun. 

"I  guess  my  gran'pa's  lonesome, 

I  don't  care  what  you  say; 
I  seen  him  kinder  cryin' 

When  you  took  me  away. 

"When  you  talk  to  me  of  heaven, 

Where  all  the  good  folks  go, 
I  guess  I'll  go  to  gran'pa's, 

An'  we'll  have  good  times,  I  know." 

I  remained  home  just  long  enough  to  sleep,  and 
it  was  not  very  sound  sleeping  at  that.  Good 
Mother  Conrad — she  was  growing  childish,  you 
know — thought  I  acted  as  crazy  as  when  I  boarded 
with  her  before  my  marriage.  I  took  my  meals  with 
her  while  my  family  was  away. 

I  had  just  taken  up  my  Christian  'Advocate  on 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  doorbell  rang.  I 
opened  the  door  and  ushered  in  a  brother  conductor, 
who,  seating  himself,  began :  "Well,  Barson,  know 
ing  that  you  were  alone  and  a  long  afternoon  to  wear 
away,  I  thought  I'd  drop  in,  chat  a  minute,  and  then 
we'd  go  down  to  the  brotherhood  meeting.  How'd 
that  strike  you?" 

"Why,"  said  I,  "the  brotherhood  meets  at  nine- 
thirty  in  the  morning.  I've  been  there  already,  and 
as  to  being  lonesome  it's  all  out  of  the  question  when 
I  have  the  old  Advocate  around." 

"You're  mistaken  about  the  brotherhood,  just  the 


214  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

same.  You're  a  member  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
Railway  Conductors,  aren't  you?" 

"O  yes!  I  see  now.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  St.  Paul.  By  the  way,  Frank,  you 
belong  to  our  church,  don't  you?" 

"Certainly!"  with  a  squint  and  a  reflective  atti 
tude.  "I've  been  a  member  of  the  old  Embury 
Methodist  Episcopal  Church  for  about  thirty-five 
years.  I'm  a  trustee  now." 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  never  joined  the 
brotherhood  or  don't  ever  come  to  class  meeting?" 

"One  brotherhood  is  all  I  can  attend.  That  takes 
the  best  part  of  the  Sunday  afternoon  I'm  off  duty, 
and  I  take  the  forenoon  to  catch  up  sleep  I  lose  the 
night  before." 

"Why,  man,  you  get  in  four  hours  ahead  of  me 
Saturday  nights,  and  I  never  think  of  missing  the 
first  morning  service  at  the  church.  As  to  the 
brotherhood,  I  can't  attend  but  one  either,  although 
I'm  a  member  of  that  of  the  conductors  simply  for 
the  financial  benefit  derived  from  it  in  case  of  acci 
dent.  I  keep  my  dues  paid,  and  as  for  attending 
their  meetings  I  never  will  as  long  as  they  are  held 
on  Sunday." 

"You  might  just  as  well  attend  lodge  as  to  work 
for  the  company." 

"That's  so,  too,  but  I  don't  work  on  Sunday.  I 
told  the  company  once  that  I  wouldn't,  and  they've 
never  bothered  me  since.  I'm  not  saying  anything 
against  you  or  any  man  working  on  the  Sabbath, 


Suspense.  215 

much  less  the  brotherhood  for  meeting  that  day. 
There's  only  one  person  I  pretend  to  control.  It  is 
just  as  much  Sabbath-breaking  for  me  to  attend  the 
brotherhood  as  it  is  to  go  in  my  back  yard  and  chop 
wood.  It  would  answer  the  purpose  as  well  and  even 
better  if  the  meetings  alternated  between  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday  nights.  That  would  give  every 
member  a  chance  to  be  there  at  least  half  the  time, 
and  many  of  them  at  every  meeting.  There  would 
be  a  better  attendance  then,  I  dare  say,  than  at  pres 
ent.  This  Sunday  business,  as  a  necessity,  is,  to  me, 
all  nonsense.  You  know  the  C.  O.  &  B.  run  excur 
sions  every  Sunday  up  the  Western  Division  about 
forty  miles  to  Chehocton  Lake.  Now,  see  here !  Our 
presiding  elder,  who  travels  over  the  road  every 
week  in  the  year,  has  to  pay  a  dollar  and  a  half  for 
a  round-trip  ticket  to  that  place  for  the  purpose  of 
encouraging  the  good  country  folk  who  are  overrun 
every  Sunday  by  the  excursionists.  The  Sabbath- 
breakers  who  go  over  a  Sabbath-breaking  road  pay 
only  fifty  cents  for  a  ride  that  costs  a  conscientious 
man  of  God  three  times  as  much.  Even  if  they  issue 
him  a  half- fare  clerical  ticket — and  you  know  those 
tickets  have  been  discontinued — it  would  not  be  as 
low  as  the  Sunday  ticket.  Where's  the  justice?  I'll 
work  my  best  for  the  company  six  days  in  the  week 
and  take  every  cent  they'll  give  me  for  my  wages. 
There  our  contract  ends.  I've  no  right  to  lease  to 
man  the  time  that  belongs  to  God.  I'd  just  as  soon 
work  for  the  company  at  their  business  on  Sunday, 


216  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

however,  as  to  attend  the  conductors'  brotherhood, 
which  is  my  individual,  secular  affair.  I  can't  run 
everything  to  suit  me,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  but  I  know 
this  one  thing,  that,  as  far  as  in  me  lies,  I'll  run 
Billy  Barson  just  as  straight  as  a  string." 

"Did  you  hear  of  Johnny  Tanitor's  misfortune?" 
my  visitor  asked,  shifting  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
"No!  What's  the  matter  with  him?" 
"He  was  discharged  last  week.  I  saw  him  yester 
day  and  he  hasn't  the  faintest  inkling  what  his 
offense  was,  unless  he  had  passed  a  spotter.  Johnny 
is  not  as  old  a  man  as  I  am — he's  about  forty-five, 
and  hasn't  been  bounced  on  account  of  age.  He's 
a  good-hearted  fellow  and  can't  say  no  to  anyone 
who  pleads  for  a  ride.  In  these  days  a  fellow's  got 
to  obey  orders  and  keep  everybody  off  the  train  who 
ain't  got  a  pass  or  a  ticket.  I  wouldn't  dare  pass  my 
mother.  Only  yesterday  a  chap  boarded  my  train 
down  the  road  a  ways.  He  handed  me  a  ticket  that 
was  O.  K.  As  I  came  through  the  car  a  station 
afterward  he  pulled  back  his  coat  and  revealed  the 
neck  of  a  bottle.  He  was  in  the  rear  of  the  last  car 
and  behind  all  the  passengers.  The  scamp  actually 
tried  to  get  me  to  drink.  I  never  drink  off  or  on 
duty,  and  thought  nothing  of  the  incident  until  we 
passed  the  next  station,  at  which  he  got  off  the 
train,  when  his  ticket  called  for  a  through  passage. 
I'm  just  as  positive  now  that  he  was  a  spotter  as 
that  I  am  sitting  here.  Can't  be  too  careful  these 
days," 


Suspense.  217 

"That's  so,  Frank.  A  little  incident  happened 
last  night  that  aroused  my  suspicions  along  this  line. 
We  stopped  at  Collins  as  usual.  I  superintended 
the  coupling  on  of  the  helper  and  one  thing  and  an 
other,  and  took  no  notice  of  who  boarded  the  train. 
.When  I  took  up  the  tickets  a  fellow  sat  in  one  of 
the  seats  with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  ears  as 
if  sound  asleep.  I  passed  him  first,  stopped,  looked 
over  the  car,  thought  a  while,  went  back  and  shook 
him  a  little.  Ticket,  please/  says  I.  He  yawned 
as  if  waking  from  a  long  sleep.  A  bewildered  ex 
pression  crossed  his  countenance.  I  knew  he  had 
just  come  in  and  that  he  was  playing  possum.  'It 
beats  all  how  quickly  some  folks  go  to  sleep/  I 
growled.  At  that  he  threw  out  a  quarter,  just  the 
fare  to  Romono,  where  he  left  me.  He  was  a  bright 
man  and,  I'm  positive,  in  the  employ  of  the  company. 
As  you  say,  a  fellow's  got  to  keep  his  eye  peeled." 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  the  scrape  I  got  into  a  year 
ago,  Billy?  It  was  one  night  coming  up  on  No. 
9.  Two  of  the  toughest  rogues  I  ever  dealt  with 
boarded  the  train  at  New  York.  They  had  through 
second-class  tickets.  Both  were  pretty  full — just 
enough  to  know  what  they  were  doing  and  doing 
it  coolly,  cunningly,  and  meaner  than  the  very  devil. 
I  found  them  in  one  of  the  day  coaches  and  when  I 
punched  their  tickets  I  told  them  to  go  into  the 
smoker  at  the  next  station.  They  said  they  would, 
and  they  did,  but  when  I  passed  through  the  train 
again  they  were  in  the  old  places, 


218  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"  'Didn't  I  tell  you  to  go  into  the  smoker  at  the 
last  station?'  I  ripped  out  pretty  sharply. 

"One  of  them,  with  an  eye  like  a  hawk  and  face 
like  a  beer  mug,  respectfully  replied,  'Yes,  sir !  We 
did/ 

"  'Well/  says  I,  'you  go  forward  at  the  next  stop 
and  stay  there,  too/ 

"After  the  next  stop  I  found  the  hawk-eyed  fellow 
alone  in  the  old  nest.  'Didn't  I  tell  you  to  stay  in 
the  smoker  ?'  I  blurted  out,  mad  as  a  hornet. 

"  'Yes,  sir/  he  politely  replied,  as  he  winked  at  an 
old  gentleman  across  the  aisle,  'and  I  did  stay  there' 
— another  wink — 'till  I  came  out  again/ 

"I  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  started  him  for 
the  door.  He  came  on  easy,  wearing  a  broad  smile. 

"  'What  ye  going  to  do  with  me  ?'  he  asked,  as  I 
opened  the  door. 

"  'Put  you  in  the  smoker  and  keep  you  there,  too, 
and  if  I  find  you  in  here  again  I'll  put  you  off  the 
train/ 

"  'Hold  on !'  he  shouted  so  that  everybody  in  the 
car  heard  him,  'stop  the  train.  I'll  have  you  arrested 
if  you  compel  me  to  pass  over  the  platform  while 
the  train's  in  motion/ 

"The  passengers  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  I  burst 
into  a  heat.  But  I  wouldn't  stop  the  train,  and  the 
scoundrel  was  so  cool  about  the  matter  that  I  didn't 
know  just  what  he  would  or  would  not  do.  So  I 
shook  his  collar  a  little  as  a  smirky  smile  played 
over  his  rum-blossomed  face,  and  I  remarked  to  him 


Suspense.  219 

that  he  would  be  arrested  if  he  played  any  more  of 
his  smartness  on  me. 

"He  calmly  sat  down  and  I  passed  on  through  the 
car.  The  passengers  had  no  use  for  the  rascal,  yet 
they  enjoyed  the  fun— a  good  deal  better  than  I  did. 

"Things  ran  smoothly  for  a  while.  He  behaved 
like  a  gentleman.  At  the  next  stop  he  went  out,  I 
don't  know  where,  but  I  was  satisfied  that  his  pranks 
were  at  an  end.  I  didn't  find  him  in  the  smoker. 
That  raised  my  anger.  You  know  I'm  a  pretty  big 
fellow,  and  when  I'm  mad  I  can  make  the  fur  fly. 
I  made  up  my  mind  it  would  fly,  too,  if  I  got  hold 
of  that  scamp  again. 

"Well,  I  entered  the  car  where  he  had  been,  and 
there,  by  Jocks!  he  was  again,  his  old  slouch  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  face  and  the  second-class  ticket 
sticking  up  over  its  greasy  band.  The  passengers 
saw  it  and  were  on  the  watch  for  the  coming  fracas. 

"I  made  for  him  like  a  hawk  at  a  chicken  and 
jerked  him  into  the  aisle  till  his  heels  cracked,  when, 
by  the  jumping  up,  John  Rogers,  if  I  didn't  have  an 
innocent  old  man  by  the  collar  and  that  imp  was  in 
the  next  seat  behind  peeking  over  the  rim  of  his  hat 
and  taking  in  the  sights  with  as  much  interest  as  a 
small  boy  watching  a  dog  fight. 

"The  old  man  was  sound  asleep  when  I  woke  him. 
He  demanded  an  explanation.  I  saw  the  bait  that  I 
had  bitten  and  explained  to  him  my  mistake.  That 
infernal  hound  had  quietly  slipped  his  ticket  in  the 
old  man's  hat  and  the  old  man's  ticket  into  his  own 


220  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

hat,  and  there  being  a  similarity  in  the  hats  I  took 
the  bait  like  a  trout  takes  a  fly.  I  mollified  the  old 
gentleman  amid  roars  of  laughter,  and  then,  turning 
to  my  respected  passenger,  said,  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  over  the  car,  'A  man  of  supreme  gall,  like  you, 
ought  to  have  a  pass  over  every  road  in  the  United 
States.  Ride  where  you  please/  and  I  passed  on." 

"It's  four  o'clock,"  says  I,  "and  I  guess  we'd 
better  go  down  to  the  Association  rooms." 

Rising  and  fastening  the  doors,  we  strolled  down 
the  street.  At  the  square  he  turned  off  to  the 
brotherhood  rooms,  and  I  proceeded  on  to  the 
Young  Men's  meeting.  The  subject  of  the  after 
noon  was  "The  Elder  Brother."  Though  the  char 
acter  was  not  such  as  I  desired  in  my  elder  brother, 
yet  it  increased  a  hundredfold  the  tension  of  my 
suspense. 


More  Hopeful.  221 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
More  Hopeful. 

"You  know  how  a  speedin'  engine 

Just  trembles  and  rolls  and  reels, 
An'  seems  like  to  jar  to  pieces 

With  every  turn  of  her  wheels. 
Well,  three-twenty-seven  was  hurlin' 

Herself  down  the  curvin'  track, 
An'  soilin'  the  face  of  nature 

With  the  smoke  from  her  diamond  stack; 
When,  suddenly,  a-rippin'  an'  tearin', 

The  right-hand  side-rod  broke, 
An',  clearin'  a  splintered  pathway 

With  a  mighty  whirlin'  stroke, 
It  tore  a  hole  in  the  boiler  ; 

The  steam  rushed  out  in  a  cloud, 
An'  the  wail  of  the  dyin'  engine 

Reechoed  long  an'  loud." 


"^ZOU  bet,  boys,"  said  Russell,  a  jolly  freight 
|  engineer,  "my  hair  stood  on  end  for  once 
-*-  in  my  life.  We  were  goin'  down  the  hill 
at  a  clippin'  rate  —  under  control,  of  course  —  an*  I 
heard  one  click  that  I  knew  meant  biz.  I  jumped 
like  lightnin',  threw  the  reverse  lever  over,  seized  the 
throttle  and  engineer's  brake-handle.  By  that  time, 
whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  I  was  stickin'  to  the 
jacket  like  a  squirrel  to  a  tree,  and  every  sliver  of  the 
cab  cleaned  off  as  smooth  's  your  hand,  and  at  every 
turn  o'  the  drivers  the  side  rod  whistled  by  my  ear 


222  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

screamin',  'Jim,  hug  'er  tight  or  I'll  clean  you  out.' 
You  may  just  imagine  I  hugged.  Naturally  I 
pulled  both  levers,  and  before  many  seconds  I  had 
the  thing  stopped." 

"Did  you  think  o'  your  mother-in-law,  Jim  ?"  put 
in  one  of  the  trainmen  standing  by. 

"You're  talkin'  now,  Jack.  That  rod  sang  a  song 
round  my  ear  to  the  tune  of  the  broomstick.  I  tell 
'e,  it  had  whiskers  on  it." 

This  conversation  took  place  among  a  group  of 
railroaders  waiting  and  loafing  about  the  station.  I 
had  listened  to  a  bit  of  it,  having  arrived  a  little 
ahead  of  my  train.  Just  then  it  came  under  the 
shed.  There  was  a  rush  off  and  a  rush  on.  The 
conductor  who  brought  the  train  from  the  West  said 
as  he  passed  me,  "Lot  o'  hogs  on  to-day,  Barson !" 

His  words  were  too  true.  Once  under  motion  I 
entered  the  day  coach  and  found  a  half  dozen  stand 
ing — among  them  one  or  two  not  very  well-dressed 
ladies.  There  were  at  least  a  half  dozen  men  with 
backs  to  the  aisle,  occupying  a  whole  seat  the  farther 
end  of  which  was  piled  full  of  boxes,  grips,  and 
dress-suit  cases.  The  retiring  conductor  had  given 
them  a  name  thoroughly  appropriate  to  their  nature. 
A  husband  and  wife  occupied  two  seats  and  put 
themselves  to  inconvenience  by  eating  across  the 
seat  between  them.  A  woman  and  a  pug  occupied 
another.  A  poor  woman  and  three  children,  all 
under  six,  occupied  two  other  seats. 

Another  nature  appeared.    It  was  a  man  who  im- 


More  Hopeful.  223 

portantly  asked  the  lady  if  she  had  four  tickets  as  a 
guarantee  to  her  occupying  so  much  room.  She 
meekly  said  "No,"  and  was  about  to  take  one  of  the 
little  ones  in  her  lap,  when  a  gentleman  of  ordinary 
dress  jumped  up  like  a  flash  and  warmly  said,  "Take 
my  seat,  sir.  I'd  rather  go  to  the  smoker  than  to 
see  those  little  folks  disturbed." 

My  turn  came  then.  Motioning  to  the  brakeman, 
I  instructed  him  to  clear  the  seats  of  baggage  and 
dogs  and  seat  the  standing  passengers.  Without  a 
word  he  piled  satchels  and  bundles  in  the  end  of  the 
coach,  and  then  quietly  explained  that  such  stuff 
belonged  in  the  baggage  car.  When  he  came  to  the 
pug  he  pertly  informed  its  mistress  that  all  dogs  had 
to  ride  with  the  baggage. 

"O,  you  can  never  take  my  little  Fanny  into  an 
old  baggage  car.  She'll  be  frightened  to  death 
among  those  rough  men  and  old  trunks  and  things  1" 

"But,  madam,  it's  my  business  to  obey  the  orders 
of  the  company.  Let  me  have  her,  please — I  assure 
you  no  harm  will  come  to  her." 

"You  can't  take  her,  I  say!"  she  screamed. 
"Can't  I  have  him,  Mr.  Conductor,"  as  she  smiled 
her  best  at  me — that  silly,  sickly  ripple  of  affectation 
so  characteristic  of  a  loveless  heart. 

"No,  madam !"  I  answered.    "Take  it  out,  John." 

John  immediately  reached  over  the  hysterical 
creature  and  folded  the  beast  to  his  bosom,  gently 
jerking  the  chain  from  the  jeweled  hands,  and 
carried  the  pup  from  the  car,  followed  by  a  wail 


224  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

of  a  broken-hearted  piece  of  femininity.  Her  babe 
of  about  eight  months  lay  asleep  in  the  lap  of  a 
nurse. 

Well  do  I  remember  one  of  Jake  Stoneman's 
cows,  that  used  to  get  in  the  barway  and  keep  all 
the  other  cattle  out  of  the  field.  We  called  her  Old 
Heif.  She  could  not  eat  and  at  the  same  time  keep 
the  rest  of  the  herd  out.  She  delighted  to  play 
watchdog  rather  than  be  a  matronly  cow.  Many  a 
time  have  I  pelted  the  stones  into  her  ribs  until  she 
surrendered,  but  the  next  morning  she  rendered 
the  same  program.  The  old  bos  reminded  me 
of  "the  dog  in  the  manger,"  but  when  it  comes  to  a 
razorback  in  a  car  seat  consistency  ceases  to  be  a 
jewel. 

We  lay  over  a  half  hour  at  Sandy  Junction  on  ac 
count  of  a  washout  ahead.  I  sat  down  in  the  shade 
and  carelessly  drew  a  letter  from  my  pocket.  It 
was  from  the  wife  of  my  old  drummer  acquaintance. 
It  stated  that  he  had  died  and  she  had  been  unable 
to  find  any  clew  to  the  person  he  had  thought  to  be 
my  brother.  My  heart  had  been  sore  all  day. 
Thoughts  would  center  around  an  elder  brother,  yet 
the  realization  of  him  seemed  farther  away  than 
ever. 

"Why  art  thou  so  pensive,  Barson  ?"  kindly  asked 
the  conductor  from  the  other  road  as  he  sat  down 
beside  me.  "You  look  as  if  you  had  lost  a  friend. 
Perhaps  you're  thinking  of  that  elder  brother  you 
so  often  speak  about." 


More  Hopeful.  225 

"That's  what  I  am,  Ladd,"  I  answered.  "A  few 
months  ago  I  thought  I  was  on  his  track,  but  this 
letter  scatters  everything  to  the  wind!" 

"How's  that?"  ' 

I  related  the  incident  connected  with  the  com 
mercial  traveler  and  the  circumstances  that  had 
broken  off  our  communication. 

"Did  you  say  the  fellow's  name  was  Parson, 
Charlie  Parson?"  inquired  a  brakeman  from  the 
road  that  terminated  at  the  Junction. 

"Yes,  sir!    That  was  the  name." 

"I  know  a  fellow  by  that  name.  He  used  to 
run  on  this  road,  but  is  on  the  Pennsylvania  some 
where  now.  He  lives  in  Philadelphia.  He's  very 
sensitive  on  the  subject  of  his  ancestry  or  I  would 
see  him  myself;  as  it  is,  I'll  get  his  address  and 
send  it  to  you  in  a  day  or  two.  You  may  do  the 
corresponding." 

I  assured  him  that  that  was  all  I  asked  of  anyone. 
I  would  run  down  the  game  if  somebody  would 
help  me  to  get  on  the  trail.  Handing  him  my  card, 
our  meeting  adjourned. 

"Haven't  I  met  you  somewhere?"  I  was  passing 
back  toward  the  front  of  the  train  after  taking  up 
the  tickets,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  arm  and  a 
pleasant  voice  asked  the  above  question.  I  con 
fronted  a  clergyman  of  perhaps  forty-five  years  of 
age.  He  seemed  anxious  to  talk  with  some  one,  and, 
inasmuch  as  nearly  all  the  other  passengers  were 

asleep — for  we  were  on  our  return  trip — a  fit  of 
15 


226  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

lonely  wakefulness  had  attacked  him.  Not  being 
particularly  busy  myself,  I  swung  round  on  the  seat 
arm  ahead  of  him  and  remarked — "Perhaps  so,  but 
I  don't  remember  your  face." 

"I  may  be  mistaken.  However,  there  is  some 
thing  about  your  size  and  those  pit  marks  on  your 
face  that  evidence  the  fact  that  I  have  seen  you 
before.  In  my  noddle  I  have  a  sort  of  photographic 
gallery  of  all  the  faces  I  ever  met,  and  I  do  not  often 
err.  If  you're  in  no  particular  hurry  we  can  soon 
find  out.  Sit  down  and  we'll  while  away  the 
minutes  by  indulging  in  a  few  pleasantries,"  and  he 
slid  to  the  farther  end  of  the  cushion,  telling  me  his 
name,  his  home,  and  that  he  was  a  Methodist 
itinerant. 

"Well,"  said  I,  as  I  seated  myself  at  his  side, 
"that  you're  a  Methodist  clergyman  is  a  pretty  good 
recommendation.  I'm  a  Methodist  layman,  and 
work  at  the  business,  too." 

"That's  right,"  and  the  good  man  slapped  me  on 
the  knee.  "I'm  glad  you  are  a  worker  and  not  a 
shirker  or  jerker.  There  are  too  many  persons  in 
these  days  who  drive  their  business  with  all  their 
might  and  work  at  their  religion  only  at  odd  spells. 
By  the  by,  how  long  have  you  been  a  member  of  the 
Church?" 

"O,  pretty  close  to  twenty  years.  I  was  con 
verted  off  up  in  the  mountains  of  New  Jersey,  at  a 
little  place  called  Summerfield,  a  few  years  before  I 
went  on  the — " 


More  Hopeful.  227 

"Summer-field  ?"  he  interrupted.  "That's  the 
place,  my  brother !"  and  he  grasped  my  hand  with  a 
grip  that  made  me  feel  as  if  a  giant  friend  had  me  in 
his  vise.  "I  knew  I'd  seen  you.  You  were  con 
verted  there  one  night  under  the  pastorate  of  Brother 
Blessner.  I  was  up  there  that  night  from  Drew  as 
sisting  him.  I  remember  your  face  as  plainly  as  if 
it  were  but  yesterday." 

The  train  slowed  up  for  Bryson.  I  left  my 
friend  to  attend  to  my  duties  as  conductor.  When 
my  task  was  over  and  our  train  in  motion  I  slid 
into  the  big  arm  of  the  Methodist  parson,  where  I 
felt  quite  at  home  and  very  small — in  fact,  I  was, 
when  compared  with  his  two-hundred-pound 
corporosity. 

"Say,  what  were  you  and  that  woman  over  there 
having  that  confab  about?  What's  wrong  with  her 
ticket?" 

"Why,"  I  answered,  "she  had  a  return  ticket 
limited  to  ten  days.  Twelve  days  have  passed  since 
it  was  stamped,  and  I'm  supposed  not  to  take  it  for 
the  return  fare." 

"Didn't  you  do  it?  That  would  be  downright 
meanness  not  to  do  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  but  it's  like  this.  You  know 
such  cases  have  been  tried  over  and  over  in  the  courts 
and  the  company  always  gets  beaten.  It  has  been 
decided  that  a  purchased  ticket  is  good  until  used, 
the  time  limitation  on  them  amounting  to  nothing. 
I  suppose  the  company  puts  on  the  limit,  however, 


228  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

to  keep  the  passengers  within  bounds,  but  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  they  hold  us  conductors  responsible  for 
the  enforcement  of  the  law." 

"Not  a  very  pleasant  duty,  I  dare  say.  What  did 
you  do  with  that  woman's  ticket?" 

"No,  indeed !  It's  not  pleasant.  When  I  meet  a 
stubborn  person,  which  is  very  seldom,  and  the  fare 
is  small,  I  take  the  ticket,  pay  the  fare,  like  this  case 
to-night,  and  let  it  go.  In  case  of  a  long-distance 
ticket,  I  enforce  the  law.  Here  is  where  the  scalpers 
get  in,  and  I  don't  blame  them  half  as  much  as  I  do 
the  companies  for  issuing  such  paper.  To  my  mind 
the  companies  ought  to  issue  more  uniform  tickets 
with  uniform  rates.  That  would  avoid  many  com 
plications.  The  idea  of  putting  on  a  ticket  'Not 
transferable !' ' 

"Yes,  that  reminds  me  of  the  clerical  orders  we 
used  to  have.  I  once  rode  over  this  road  at  half 
rate,  but  now  I  go  like  everybody  else.  Guess  I  get 
the  worth  of  my  money,  too,"  and  he  shook  his  big, 
jolly  sides  with  laughter.  "I  traveled  on  a  clerical 
when  a  student  in  Drew,  and  by  the  way,  if  a  fellow 
ever  needs  a  boost  it's  when  he's  a  student.  Some 
of  the  boys  who  had  no  regular  preaching  places, 
and  had  no  right  to  the  half-rate  order,  once  in  a 
while  borrowed  one  of  these  'not  transferables'  and 
rode  on  it.  It  leaked  out  to  the  authorities,  and  the 
students  ceased  riding  at  half  rates.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  same  in  our  case  now.  The  great  majority  suffer 
for  two  or  three  rascals.  Wouldn't  care  so  much  if 


More  Hopeful.  229 

the  filthy  politicians  did  not  go  scot  free.  I  can't 
blame  the  company  so  much,  but  I  would  like  to  see 
the  culprits  deprived  of  their  thumbs  and  great  toes, 
like  Adoni-bezek  of  old.  One  of  these  days  the 
Haman  game  will  be  played  on  them  and  they'll  be 
hanged  on  a  gallows  of  their  own  manufacture. 
Say,  brother,  don't  you  have  to  take  a  pile  of  back 
talk  from  us  impudent  passengers?" 

"To  be  sure!  But  what's  the  use  of  squealing 
about  it?  Some  folks  would  die  if  they  couldn't 
talk.  They  are  like  some  Methodist  preachers  and 
poor  railroads — their  terminal  facilities  are  bad. 
Haven't  you  any  good  old  brothers  in  your  congre 
gation,  or  conceited  members  of  your  official  board, 
who  would  talk  the  church  to  death  if  you  did  not 
blow  for  brakes?" 

"Yes,  that's  so!  I  blow  for  brakes  to  one  class, 
and  blow  up  brakes  to  another,  and  furnish  steam 
for  still  another  class.  Human  nature  is  a  curious 
concern  anyway,  and  a  trifle  different  in  each  in 
dividual.  If  everybody  was  as  good  as  you  and  me, 
we  preachers  would  have  too  soft  a  bed,  and  you 
conductors  wouldn't  earn  your  salt.  I  tell  you,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  leveler  of  human 
nature  and  the  transformer  of  man  into  an  angel  of 
light,  life  wouldn't  be  worth  the  living.  There  is 
no  life  outside  of  Him.  In  touch  with  Him,  we  have 
no  inward  crosses,  but  they  crowd  on  the  outside 
pretty  thickly  sometimes,  yet  his  strength  is  suffi 
cient.  Bless  the  Lord!" 


230  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

Thus  we  chatted  on  all  the  way  to  Coalville. 
There  I  bade  my  friend  good-night. 

"Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing, 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkness; 
So  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one  another, 
Only  a  look  and  a  voice,  then  darkness  again  and  a  silence." 


A  Philadelphia  Home.  231 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
A  Philadelphia  Home. 

"1~"^V  ORA,  just  listen  to  this!    Here's  a  letter 

1      from  a  Billy  Barson,  who  claims  me  for 

a  brother.     He  has  no  grounds  under 

heaven  for  thinking  so  other  than  that  my  name  is 

similar  to  his,  that  we  are  both  without  relatives, 

and  that  he  has  an  innate  feeling  of  having  a  living 

elder  brother." 

The  words  fell  rather  sarcastically  from  the  lips 
of  Charles  H.  Parson.  He  flourished  the  above- 
mentioned  letter  with  the  importance  of  a  man  who 
knew  what  he  said  to  be  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter. 

Dorothy,  his  wife,  came  in  from  the  dining  room, 
and,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  read  on  through  the 
letter  with  him. 

"But  see  here,  Charlie,"  she  calmly  suggested, 
"if  this  unknown  personage  is  thirty-five,  isn't  he 
about  the  age  of  your  younger  brother  whom  you 
say  died  of  smallpox?  You  know  that  you  are  not 
positive  he  is  dead." 

"That's  so,  honey!  But  to  think  of  his  turning 
up,  slap-dab,  in  this  way ! — the  very  idea  is  absurd. 
The  whole  shooting-match  is  not  worth  wasting  a 
two-cent  stamp  over,"  and  he  tossed  the  letter  into 
the  wastebasket. 


232  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"See  here,  my  dear!"  said  his  less  hasty  better 
half,  quietly  relieving  the  basket  of  the  strange 
missive,  "the  writer  of  this  absurdity,  if  that  is  what 
you  wish  to  call  it,  is  no  fool.  He's  a  conductor  of 
a  passenger  train,  and  that's  just  as  exalted  a  sta 
tion  in  life  as  you  have  on  your  greasy  engine. 
There's  no  harm  done  in  satisfying  the  poor  fellow's 
curiosity,  anyway.  You  know  that  'Truth  is  often 
stranger  than  fiction.' ' 

"O,  the  man  may  be  all  right,  as  far  as  that  is 
concerned,  and  it  might  be  an  honor  to  own  him  as 
a  brother,  and  all  that — but,  shucks!  It's  all  tom 
foolery!  He's  nothing  but  a  visionary  chap  with 
one  of  his  cogs  slipped.  I'm  done  with  him." 

"No,  you're  not,  either!  Weren't  you  born  in 
eastern  Pennsylvania?  and  orphaned  when  a  small 
boy?  Didn't  you  have  a  younger  brother?  And 
this  Barson  writes  that  he  had  the  smallpox  before 
he  could  scarcely  remember?" 

"Well,  Dorothy  Ann!  You're  a  good  lawyer  to 
put  two  and  two  together  and  make  a  million  out  of 
it.  You  could  always  take  three  nothings  and  make 
a  big  thing  out  of  them.  How  about  that  ?"  and  he 
playfully  kissed  her. 

"It's  a  clear  case  that  you're  tied  in  a  double  bow- 
knot  to  a  woman  you  can't  shake  off  so  easily." 

"All  right,  then,  Dode;  get  me  a  pen  and  we'll 
see  if  we  can  resurrect  a  brother." 

Half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  he  seized  the  pen 
and  wrote ; 


A  Philadelphia  Home.  233 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR  :  Yours  of  the  23d  inst,  regard 
ing  our  connection  as  brothers,  received.  I  have 
little  faith  in  the  evidence  you  give,  and  would  have 
burned  the  letter  without  answering  had  it  not  been 
for  my  wife.  I  will  admit,  however,  that  I  had  a 
younger  brother  who,  in  babyhood,  died  from  small 
pox.  If  you  care  to  investigate  further,  come  and 
see  me.  Yours  respectfully, 

"CHARLES  H.  PARSON/' 

Sealing  the  envelope  and  drawing  the  rocker  up 
near  the  open  grate,  for  it  was  a  chilly  night  in 
September,  he  took  up  Ben-Hur  to  while  away  the 
evening  hours.  He  was  a  locomotive  engineer  on 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  running  one  of  the  fast 
flyers  between  Philadelphia  and  Atlantic  City  and 
living  in  the  former  city.  His  home  indicated  that 
of  a  well-to-do  railroader.  Dwelling  in  the  sub 
urban  district  with  his  wife  and  four  children,  there 
were  no  comforts  of  life  that  the  family  did  not  en 
joy;  even  many  luxuries  came  within  their  reach. 
All  were  members  of  the  Presbyterian  church  except 
Hal,  the  little  four-year-old  Parson. 

Our  mistress  was  no  ordinary  musician,  nor  was 
Mr.  Parson,  for  that  matter.  The  children  inherited 
the  talent.  An  evening  or  Sunday  afternoon  sacred 
concert  frequently  occurred  in  the  home — some  one 
leading  on  the  piano,  banjo,  or  other  of  their  various 
instruments,  while  the  other  members  of  the  family 
followed  on  other  instruments,  or  in  song,  or  both. 


234  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

The  father's  heart  beat  very  near  to  his  children, 
and  much  nearer  even  since  a  bright  little  son  had 
been  laid  away  under  the  snow. 

His  run  was  all  in  daylight,  so  that  he  spent 
nearly  every  evening  in  his  home.  His  was  a  model, 
modern  family.  Mattie,  the  oldest,  had  just  reached 
sixteen.  She  was  a  perfect  picture  of  her  mother, 
whose  affectionate,  unassuming,  sympathetic,  pleas 
ant,  economical,  generous,  and  motherly  nature 
made  her  very  attractive.  Mother  was  a  sort  of 
balance  wheel  to  her  husband,  who,  accustomed  to 
think  quickly  while  his  train  neared  and  passed  sig 
nals  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour,  often  formed 
his  opinions  as  rapidly  at  home,  when  sober  thinking 
and  careful  deliberation  were  absolutely  necessary. 

"I  say,  wife,"  he  remarked  a  few  evenings  later, 
"here's  a  pretty  good  thing  about  railroading.  A 
conductor  is  instructing  a  green  brakeman  and  ad 
vising  him  always  to  keep  his  lantern  with  him,  the 
fellow  having  left  it  in  a  corner  at  the  other  end  of 
the  car.  When  he  has  it  at  hand  he  would  be  ready 
to  give  signals  for  safety  in  case  of  accident,  other 
wise  the  consequences  might  prove  fatal.  The 
author  then  applies  the  illustration  to  religion  that 
some  hang  on  a  peg  to  be  taken  down  when  con 
venient,  while  others  carry  it  with  them  seven  days 
in  a  week.  Not  a  bad  idea. 

"Do  you  remember  that  slight  wreck  I  had  a  few 
years  ago  when  I  was  pulling  the  night-line?"  he 
continued,  laying  down  the  newspaper,  removing 


A  Philadelphia  Home.  235 

his  glasses,  and  gently  tapping  them  on  his  left 
thumb.  "That  very  thing  caused  the  mischief.  The 
road  lay  a  dead  level  and  I  had  a  train  of  eight 
coaches,  two  more  than  usual.  The  night  was  dark 
and  rainy,  and  as  I  left  the  lights  in  the  Atlantic 
City  yard  and  plunged  into  the  darkness  following 
the  gleaming  rails  over  which  we  flew  I  felt  pretty 
shaky,  for  we  had  a  late  start  of  twenty  minutes  and 
a  heavy  train  at  that.  We  had  a  single  track,  then, 
you  know.  I  determined  to  make  up  time.  We  had 
a  run  of  about  thirty  miles  to  a  siding,  where  we 
met  No.  9  coming  from  this  city.  We  usually 
waited  a  few  minutes  for  her,  and  I  was  bound  she 
would  not  wait  for  us  that  night.  Our  custom  was 
to  run  by  the  siding  that  lay  to  the  left  of  the  main 
track  and  back  in.  If  ever  an  engine  reeled  it  off 
old  700  did  that  night.  The  telegraph  poles  looked 
like  a  fine-toothed  comb." 

"O,  Charlie,  what  makes  you  tell  such  whoppers? 
You  may  find  somebody  foolish  enough  to  believe 
them  some  day  and  then  what?"  put  in  his  wife. 

"Get  that  Malena,  Dode.  I  knocked  a  bit  of  hide 
off  my  hand  to-day.  It  feels  kind  o'  sore.  There, 
that  feels  better.  Thank  you,"  and  he  settled  back 
into  his  Morris. 

"As  I  was  a-saying,  we  were  making  time  and 
I  passed  the  siding  not  noticing  on  it  a  lot  of  flat 
cars  loaded  with  rails.  In  fact,  it  was  on  a  left 
curve  and  I  couldn't  see  them  anyway  in  the  dark 
ness.  I  sailed  over  the  frog  of  the  switch  a  hum- 


236  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

ming  and  stopped  just  as  I  heard  the  whistle  of  No. 
9.  I  knew  she  would  come  in  under  control,  and  felt 
no  danger  along  that  line.  The  fireman  watched  the 
signals  and  I  backed  for  all  there  was  in  the  engine. 
The  rear  brakeman  remained  on  the  rear  platform. 
While  I  came  tearing  backward,  yet  under  control, 
he  noticed  the  cars  down  the  siding.  Had  he  had 
his  lantern  then  he  could  have  signaled  us  in  time  to 
avoid  danger,  but  his  glim  sat  inside  the  door.  By 
the  time  he  got  it  out  ready  for  use  the  moment  had 
come  for  him  to  jump  for  his  neck.  The  engine  was 
slowing  down  and  on  the  frog  when  we  struck.  Of 
course  it  wrecked  the  rear  coach,  but  no  one  was 
hurt.  The  collision  drove  the  flat  cars  back  so  that 
I  got  in  off  the  main  line  in  less  than  two  minutes. 
Maybe  the  conductor  didn't  talk  turkey  to  that 
brakeman.  It  was  Aaron  Simons,  and  you  know 
he  can  spin  it  off  by  the  mile.  He  fairly  tore  it  off 
that  night,  probably  as  much  because  he  had  to  get 
his  back  wet  as  for  the  blunder  of  the  brakeman. 
We  simply  cut  off  the  rear  car — it  was  empty  any 
way — left  it  there,  and  came  on  home.  We  were 
into  Broad  Street  on  time,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  letter  from  your 
brother  to-day?  Are  you  going  to  lay  off  next 
Tuesday  to  greet  him?" 

"Not's  anybody  knows  of." 

"Haven't  you  the  faintest  hope  that  he  is  your 
brother?" 

"Not  the  faintest." 


A  Philadelphia  Home.  237 

"You  know  he  writes  just  as  confident  as  if  he 
knew  you  to  be  a  brother  and  had  visited  you 
before—" 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  it,  and  have  about  as  much 
interest  in  the  affair  as.  I  would  have  in  a  rumored 
heritage  from  China.  I  do  have  a  sort  of  curiosity, 
though,  to  see  what  sort  of  a  visionary  jigger  he  is. 
But  it's  time  for  bed,"  and,  with  a  yawn,  he  picked 
up  his  shoes  and  started. 


238  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
My  Elder  Brother. 

"  1  X  O  you  know,  Will,"  said  my  wife  to  me 
1  on  the  morning  of  our  start  for  Phila- 

•*"• ^  delphia,  "wouldn't  it  be  quite  a  coinci 
dence  if  you  should  find,  and  be  united  to,  your 
brother  in  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love?" 

"That's  as  sure  's  the  world,"  I  replied.  "I  had 
not  thought  of  that.  But  it  really  seems  as  if  this 
Parson  is  a  brother  to  me.  I  can't  tell  why,  though. 
If  he  proves  otherwise,  I  know  my  disappointment 
will  be  so  great  as  to  drive  me  crazy.  I  feel  as  con 
fident,  however,  as  if  it  were  a  certainty.  I'll  never 
give  up  the  chase  anyway.  My  motto  has  long  been : 

"There  ain't  no  use  in  growlin' 

An'  grumblin'  all  the  time, 
When  music's  ringin'  everywhere, 

An'  everything's  a  rhyme. 
Jus'  keep  on  smilin'  cheerfully, 

If  hope  is  nearly  gone, 
An'  bristle  up,  and  grit  your  teeth, 

An'  keep  on  keepin'  on." 

We  left  Coalville  on  Monday  morning — Annie, 
Joe,  Jennie,  little  Grace,  and  myself.  At  three  in  the 
afternoon  we  left  the  Pennsylvania  at  Iselin  and,  all 
feeling  well  and  it  being  a  beautiful  day  in  October, 


My  Elder  Brother.  239 

walked  leisurely  up  the  slopes  to  the  Stoneman 
homestead.  More  than  twenty  years  had  passed 
since  I  had  left  the  place — left  it  in  the  darkness  like 
a  thief.  Changes  were  evident.  I  recalled  the  abuse 
I  had  received  there  at  the  hands  of  a  hard  master, 
and  the  many  bitter  thoughts  of  resentment  that  had 
haunted  my  life;  yet,  on  that  autumnal  afternoon, 
when  the  golden  sun  softened  the  familiar  scenes 
through  the  shimmering  haze,  there  came  to  me  a 
spirit  of  tenderness  fraught  with  pity  rather  than 
revenge. 

"How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view !" 

I  stood  on  a  knoll  a  few  moments  feasting  my 
eyes,  while  wife  and  the  children  rested  along  the 
roadside  or  plucked  the  last  flowers  of  the  season. 
The  door  of  the  corn-house  attic  where  I  used  to 
sleep  hung  on  one  hinge.  The  roof  of  the  barn,  re 
cently  patched  with  new  shingles,  sagged  in  the 
center.  The  house  had  been  remodeled,  the  repairs 
half  completed,  left  unpainted,  and  now  the  home 
presented  a  variegated  appearance  of  faded  red, 
yellow  ocher,  and  weather-beaten  wood.  Pickets 
were  off  the  fence,  gates  stood  ajar  and  dilapidated, 
wild  carrot  covered  the  meadows,  and  frost-bitten 
weeds  lined  the  roadsides.  Near  by  the  corner  of 
the  pasture  where  lay  my  faithful  friend,  Shack,  a 
half  dozen  cows  and  young  cattle  stood  sleepily 
chewing  their  cuds.  At  the  hatchway  door  stood  an 


240  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

old  team  of  horses  hitched  to  a  farm  wagon  from 
which  a  bent-with-years  man  unloaded  apples.  I 
watched  him  a  moment.  It  was  Jake  Stoneman, 
rough,  enfeebled,  and  apparently  friendless.  He 
filled  a  basket  with  apples  and  set  it  up  on  the  wagon 
box.  As  he  leaned  wearily  against  the  wagon  his 
right  hand  pushed  back  the  slouch  hat,  displaying  a 
shining  crown.  While  he  scratched  the  ringlet  of 
gray  hair  his  eyes  fell  on  us.  He  gazed  in  monu 
mental  quietude.  With  a  final  scratch  he  pulled  the 
greasy  felt  over  his  shaggy  brows  and  went  into  the 
cellar  with  the  fruit. 

We  sauntered  on  toward  the  house.  The  second 
time  he  came  from  the  cellar  I  stood  by  the  wagon 
to  meet  him.  "How  are  you,  Mr.  Stoneman?"  I 
said,  extending  my  hand. 

He  shoved  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head,  stood 
on  one  foot  as  if  the  empty  basket  in  his  left  hand 
overbalanced  him,  and  awkwardly  reached  toward 
me  with,  "By  Jocks!  You've  got  the  best  o'  me. 
My  's  ain't  s'  good  's  they  onct  was.  Can't  jest 
'zactly  place  ye."  His  left  eye  squinted  in  the  same 
old  leering  style. 

"Don't  you  recollect  a  lad  by  the  name  of  Barson 
running  away  from  you  a  few  years  ago?" 

The  basket  fell  to  the  ground,  and  his  left  eye 
opened  in  astonishment  as  he  exclaimed,  "Yew  don't 
say !  Be  yew  that  little  Will  Barson  what  uset  tew 
work  so  like  a  tiger,  an'  run  away  more'n  twenty 
year  ago?" 


My  Elder  Brother.  241 

"I'm  the  lad,  and  this  is  my  wife  and  these  are  my 
children." 

He  shook  them  all  by  the  hand  with  a  swing  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  windmill.  His  speech 
left  him.  Looking  up  at  the  sun,  he  turned  to  his 
work,  but  before  he  could  touch  an  apple  a  tear  stole 
down  his  cheek.  Then  he  came  to  the  tailboard  of 
the  wagon  again  and  began:  "I  don't  know  what 
tew  say  ner  dew.  I'm  'shamed  tew  say  I'm  glad  tew 
see  yew,  but  I  be.  I've  seen  some  trouble  sense  then, 
an'  I  see  things  a  leetle  diffenter.  Th'  ole  woman 
died  a  dozen  year  ago — "  He  glanced  at  the  setting 
sun  again  and  drew  his  dirty  sleeve  across  his  eyes. 
"Me'n  th'  ole  woman  was  purty  middlin'  hash  tew 
yew,  an'  I  guess  we're  gittin'  our  punishment  fur  it. 
She  was  an  awful  sufferer  'fore  she  died — an' — an' 
we  often  talked  o'  what  a  good  boy  you  was  and 
wondered  what  had  become  o'  yew.  Guess  you've 
prospered  by  yer  looks,  an'  I'm  glad  on  it,  tew." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Stoneman  is  dead," 
I  put  in,  for  the  conversation  was  growing  lax. 
"You  are  not  living  here  alone  are  you?" 

"O  no!  My  son  what  run  away  'fore  yew  came 
here — guess  yew  never  knowed  that — why,  he  came 
back  with  a  wife  an'  has  lived  with  me  ever  sense. 
He's  got  the  property  all  away  from  me  an'  treats 
me  like  a  slave,"  speaking  lower  and  looking  around 
toward  the  kitchen  door.  "Guess  it's  jedgment  on 
me."  Turning  uneasily  and  hesitating  a  moment, 

he  went  into  the  house. 
16 


242  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

"Papa,  aren't  these  apples  just  fine?"  exclaimed 
Joe,  who  had  got  to  the  core  of  one  of  the  red- 
cheeked  Kings. 

Jennie  bashfully  crowded  into  her  mother's  skirts 
as  she  whispered  cautiously:  "He's  an  awful  funny 
man,  mamma!  What  makes  his  eye  look  so  ugly. 
I  don't  want  to  stay  here  all  night." 

Mr.  Stoneman  reappeared  with  his  face  the  pleas- 
antest  I  ever  saw  it.  "We  want  yew  all  tew  stay 
over  night  with  us.  Cy's  away  on  jury,  but  me  'nd 
'Lizy  '11  dew  the  best  we  ken  fur  ye.  I'll  jest  unhook 
the  hosses  an'  dew  the  chores.  Go  right  in  t'  the 
house,  an'  I'll  come  soon  's  I  kin." 

Annie  and  the  girls  went  in ;  Joe  and  I  remained 
outside.  While  our  host  hustled  up  the  chores  I 
wandered  around  in  the  old  nooks  and  corners  so 
familiar  to  the  boy  and  so  precious  in  the  memories 
of  the  man. 

In  the  evening  we  gathered  about  the  dim  lamp 
and  in  the  musty-smelling  best  room.  There  was 
nothing  connected  with  our  former  relations  that 
would  furnish  a  pleasing  theme  for  conversation  to 
any  of  us,  consequently  I  launched  out  on  reminis 
cences  of  my  railroad  life.  Mr.  Stoneman  was  a 
very  attentive  and  enthusiastic  listener.  He  occa 
sionally  interrupted  me  with  "Dew  tell !"  or  "I  want 
'o  know !"  concluding  with  "Waal,  you've  had  quite 
some  exper'ence  an'  done  fust-rate,  an*  I'm  glad 
on  it." 

He  insisted  on  taking  us  to  the  station  the  next 


My  Elder  Brother.  243 

morning.  He  dressed  up  in  his  best,  which  was  not 
as  nearly  up-to-date  as  his  garb  of  twenty  years  be 
fore.  The  slow  horses  shacked  along  the  dusty 
road,  the  trace  chains  clanked  against  the  tongue, 
the  dry  spokes  squeaked  in  the  hubs,  and  the  rickety 
two-seated  market  wagon  rattled  like  an  empty  hay 
rigging.  Yet  the  driver  was  happy  and  doing  his 
best  to  make  amends  for  the  wrongs  he  had  com 
mitted.  We  were  all  happy. 

At  the  station  I  was  the  last  to  bid  him  good-bye. 
He  took  me  by  the  hand,  saying :  "Will,  I'm  awful 
glad  ye  come  tew  see  me" — he  drew  his  sleeve  across 
his  eyes.  "I  want  ye  tew  furgive  me  fur  my  past 
meannesses — I'd  swat  myself,  ind  over  ind,  if  't'u'd 
dew  iny  good,  but  it  won't" — a  faded  bandanna 
came  across  his  eyes  as  he  blew  his  nose  that  re 
sounded  much  like  the  honk  of  a  wild  goose — "but 
it  don't  dew  no  good  ter  nobody  tew  cry  over  spilt 
milk.  I  hope  God  '11  furgive  me.  Good-bye !"  The 
old  man  climbed  up  into  his  rig  and  drove  away 
with  the  assurance  that  no  enmity  existed  between 
him  and  me.  I  pitied  him  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart;  nevertheless,  I  remembered  that  "with  what 
measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again.'* 
Though  I  did  not  meet  the  son,  I  was  confident  that 
in  him  the  father  had  a  hard  master. 

My  reader,  you  have  already  been  introduced  into 
the  Philadelphia  home,  which  we  entered  at  eleven- 
thirty.  We  had  a  warm  reception.  Mrs.  Parson 
and  Annie  loved  each  other  at  sight.  The  children, 


244  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

too,  fell  into  frolicking  and  prattle,  like  old  play 
mates.  I  alone  was  uneasy,  yet  more  confident  than 
ever.  Still,  what  if  he  were  not  my  brother!  The 
very  thought  chilled  me,  and  I  cast  it  aside. 

"Charlie  will  be  in  at  four-sixteen,"  Mrs.  Parson 
assured  me,  knowing  that  my  minutes  passed  like 
hours.  I  could  remain  within  doors  no  longer.  Tak 
ing  my  coat  and  hat,  I  hailed  a  passing  car  and 
fetched  up  at  the  Broad  Street  station. 

After  my  exit  Mrs.  Parson  remarked  to  Annie, 
not  wishing  to  say  it  in  my  presence  for  fear  of 
raising  my  hopes  higher  than  they  already  were: 
"How  much  your  husband  looks  like  Charlie !  The 
shape  of  his  head,  his  gait,  and  the  trim  of  his 
shoulders  are  exactly  like  his ;  even  his  voice  is  fa 
miliar.  I  really  do  hope  and  believe  they  are 
brothers." 

Promptly  at  four-sixteen  I  saw  the  Atlantic  City 
flyer  coming  into  the  Broad  Street  station.  My 
heart  thumped  like  a  trip  hammer.  All  the  weary 
years  of  longing  crowded  into  that  one  moment.  I 
could  not  wait  for  the  train  to  come  to  a  standstill. 
Climbing  into  the  tender  and  creeping  over  the  foot 
board,  I  opened  the  cab  door  just  as  the  engineer 
rose  from  his  seat.  I  had  caught  the  profile  of  his 
face  when  the  engine  passed  me. 

"You're  my  brother !"  I  said,  breathless  from  ex 
citement,  as  he  faced  me  with  his  right  hand  on  the 
engineer's  brake  handle. 

He  gave  me  one  searching  look  that  went  through 


'You're  my  brother !"  I  said. — Page  244. 


My  Elder  Brother.  245 

and  through  me.  The  penetrating,  cold  expression 
in  his  eyes  faded  like  pictures  on  a  screen  thrown 
from  a  dissolving  light,  and  was  replaced  by  one  of 
brotherly  love.  But  a  moment  more  of  silence  and 
he  threw  his  arms  about  me.  The  passengers  and 
bystanders  were  treated  to  a  novel  sight  that  after 
noon — two  long-separated  brothers  locked  in  each 
other's  embrace  like  lovers.  My  elder  brother  was 
speechless,  feasting  his  eyes  upon  me  the  while; 
both  of  us  were  oblivious  to  the  faces  and  noise  be 
low.  We  were  not  strikingly  alike  in  features,  yet 
sufficiently  so  that  each  instantly  recognized  himself 
in  the  other.  Not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  crossed  either 
of  our  minds  as  to  the  identity  of  the  other.  Happy 
by  reason  of  our  reunion,  and  forgetful  of  our  sur 
roundings,  we  walked  home  together  carrying  my 
brother's  dinner  basket  between  us  like  two  school 
boys. 

Arriving  at  home,  Charlie  found  his  wife  pre 
pared  to  accept  the  situation,  for  she  had  concluded 
we  were  brothers.  That  not  a  discord  occurred  in 
our  family  circles  was  remarkable.  Our  tastes  had 
been  so  alike,  even  to  the  selecting  of  our  life  part 
ners,  that  perfect  harmony  reigned.  Annie  and 
Dorothy  seemed  like  reunited  sisters  after  a  long 
separation. 


246  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
His  Story* 

""V  TOW,  Charlie!  how  about  our  names,  and 

I  \j      how  were  we  separated?"  I  questioned,  as 

•*•    ^      we  sat  by  the  glowing  grate  .after  tea, 

while  Annie,  Dorothy,  and  the  children  came,  one 

by  one,  mute  listeners,  into  our  circle. 

"I've  been  turning  the  subject  over  in  my  mind 
and  am  quite  sure  now  I  have  the  right  end  of  the 
string.  Guess  I'll  proceed  to  unravel  the  tangle. 
I've  a  faint  recollection  of  a  story-and-a-half,  wood- 
colored  house  not  very  far  from  this  city.  It  was  my 
home  once.  I  was  about  five,  I  should  say,  when 
father  died.  I  can  see  him  vividly,  in  a  plain  coffin 
in  that  little,  low  room."  As  he  said  this,  his  eyes 
seemed  to  pierce  the  shadowy  past  slowly  bringing 
to  mind  incidents,  such  as  a  steady  gaze  slowly  re 
veals,  one  by  one,  objects  in  a  darkened  room.  "He 
was  a  cripple — a  big  gash  and  a  sore  were  on  one 
of  his  legs — wounds,  mother  said,  he  got  in  the 
war.  There  was  a  little  baby  there  then,  my  brother, 
whom  my  mother  called  Kirk.  Not  many  months 
afterward  I  was  taken  away  to  a  soldiers'  orphan 
school,  where  I  remained  about  two  or  three  years. 
I  got  homesick  for  mother  and  Kirk,  and  ran  away. 
I  arrived  home  to  find  the  house  empty.  I  went  to 


His  Story.;  247 

a  neighbor's  and  inquired  what  had  become  of  you 
and  mother.  I  remember  the  answer  as  distinctly 
as  if  it  had  been  said  yesterday,  'Yer  ma's  dead — 
died  o'  smallpox  an'  was  buried  yisterd'y.  Kirk's 
dead  by  this  time  o'  the  same  disease  over  at  Widder 
Van  Reichter's.  There  hain't  nothing  here  fur  you. 
You'd  better  go  back  to  school,'  and  I  went." 

Here  Mattie  broke  in  by  saying,  "Papa,  the  name 
of  the  widow  who  kept  Uncle  Kirk  is  Dutch,  isn't 
it?  You  know  lots  of  them  pronounce  b  for  p?" 

"That's  it!  That's  fust  it,"  exclaimed  Charlie. 
"The  old  woman  said  'Barson'  instead  of  'Parson,' 
and  the  authorities  at  the  orphanage  where  you  were 
received  spelled  the  name  as  she  pronounced  it.  That 
mystery  is  cleared  up." 

He  continued  after  hitching  in  his  chair: 
"Thoughtless  boy  that  I  was,  I  went  back  to  the 
orphan  school  without  further  inquiry  and  remained 
there  until  discharged  at  sixteen.  Older  and  less 
giddy  then,  I  naturally  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
home  of  my  childhood.  I  found  no  trace  of  you, 
but  I  did  identify  father's  and  mother's  graves.  A 
few  years  ago  I  placed  a  slab  there  to  mark  their 
resting  place.  I  found  nothing  of  your  grave,  and 
it's  no  wonder" — looking  up  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye;  then  he  assumed  a  sober  mien — "and  con 
cluded  it  was  among  the  scores  in  the  potter's  field. 
From  that  moment  till  I  saw  you  in  my  cab  this 
afternoon  I  had  no  doubt  in  the  least  but  you  were 
dead" 


248  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

He  closed  his  narration  for  a  moment,  his  eyes 
riveted  to  the  ceiling  and  the  toe  of  his  slipper  tap 
ping  lightly  against  a  rung  of  my  rocker.  A  tear 
stole  down  his  sunburnt  face.  He  drew  a  long 
breath,  twisted  again  in  his  chair,  and  went  on : 

"From  my  search  for  home  I  went  onto  the  rail 
road  and  have  been  there  ever  since.  I  was  married 
when  quite  young,  but  we  never  have  lived  in  a 
rented  house  in  our  lives.  The  good  Lord  has  been 
very  gracious  to  us.  We  have  more  than  we  really 
need,  have  given  away  a  tenth  or  more  of  our  in 
come  every  year,  and  have  a  little  nest-egg  left. 
Did  you  say  you  were  running  on  the  C.  O.  &  B.  ?" 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"You  know,  a  few  years  ago  our  company  struck 
that  road  at  Sandy  Junction  with  a  through  solid 
vestibule  train.  I  had  the  honor  to  pull  it.  We 
must  have  been  together  then,  sometime,  or  very 
near  it,  if  you  run  on  the  Mountain  Division.  I  was 
not  on  the  run  very  long.  The  deal  did  not  pay 
our  company,  and  the  train  was  discontinued." 

Again  he  shifted  his  position.  "An  incident  hap 
pened  there  one  day  that  I'll  never  forget.  An  ac 
cident  on  your  road  delayed  one  of  your  west-bound 
trains.  That  train  lay  there  while  we  waited  for 
the  east-bound.  Two  men  got  into  conversation; 
one  of  them,  who  had  come  up  on  our  train,  was 
crazy  drunk.  I  judge  that  the  sober  one  had  been 
hauling  the  other  over  the  coals  for  his  dissipation. 
At  any  rate,  something  touched  his  conscience,  and, 


His  Story.  249 

jumping  to  his  feet,  he  hurled  his  bottle  at  random, 
declaring  that  he'd  never  touch  another  drop.  Well, 
the  bottle  struck  a  little  girl  in  the  head.  As  she 
fell  I  caught  her  in  my  arms —  What's  the  matter, 
Kirk?"  he  stammered,  in  surprise. 

The  whole  incident  so  vividly  impressed  upon  my 
memory  passed  before  me.  The  fact  that  we  had 
been  so  closely  together  and  unrecognized  had 
broken  up  the  fountains  of  my  heart,  and  I  burst 
into  tears.  I  wiped  them  from  my  face,  pulled  my 
self  together,  and  answered :  "I  saw  it  all  and  took 
notice  of  you,  but  I  was  so  engrossed  with  the  two 
men,  an  engineer  and  conductor,  with  whom  I  had 
previously  run,  that  you  escaped  my  critical  eye,  and 
for  once  in  my  life  I  was  not  thinking  of  you.  At 
that  same  instant  orders  were  handed  me  to  leave." 

It  was  his  turn  then  to  be  silent. 

"The  past  is  o'er— 
Waste  not  thy  days  in  vain  regret, 
Grieve  thou  no  more. 

"Look  now  before, 
And  not  behind  thee ;  do  not  fret— 
The  past  is  o'er. 

"There  are  in  store 
For  thee  still  happy  days.    Forget ! 
Grieve  thou  no  more." 


250  On  the  Mountain  Division. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
Aw  Revoir* 

"On  the  road  of  life  one  milestone  more, 
In  the  book  of  life  one  leaf  turned  o'er." 

NEARLY  a  year  has  passed  since  Charlie  and 
I  met.    I  am  at  my  old  post.    Charlie  rides 
in  the  cab  pulling  my  train.    At  every  stop 
he  sees  the  wave  of  my  hand  or  hears  the  air  whistle 
when  I  pull  the  rope.    He  obeys  me,  though  ahead 
of  me,  where  he  keeps  his 

"hand  upon  the  throttle 
And  his  eyes  upon  the  rail." 

No  conductor  on  the  line  feels  prouder  of,  nor 
safer  behind,  his  engineer  than  I  do.  I  often  watch 
him  from  the  lower  step  of  the  rear  platform  as  the 
train  takes  a  right  curve.  In  the  summer  days  with 
his  head  partially  out  of  the  window  the  breeze  floats 
his  golden  hair  from  under  his  cap,  while  on  the 
down  grade  his  left  hand  rests  upon  the  engineer's 
brake  handle,  on  the  up  grade  it  is  on  the  throttle. 
On  a  straight  line  his  eyes  glance  up  at  the  steam 
gauge  and  air  indicator,  and  his  hand  cuffs  the 
steam  cock  to  test  the  amount  of  water  in  the  boiler. 
All  the  while  the  engine  rolls  back  and  forth  and 


Au  Revoif.  251 

his  lithe  body  sways  to  and  fro  as  he  whistles  away 
like  a  singing  canary  swinging  in  its  trapeze.  In 
the  darkness  of  night  I  can  see  the  same  figure 
moving  here  and  there  under  the  dim  light.  He  is 
small,  but  "a  man  for  a'  that,"  my  elder  brother, 
too.  Those  who  once  said  that  my  intuition  of  an 
elder  brother  was  all  twaddle  and  moonshine  now 
wave  a  salute  to  the  Parson  brothers  as  their  train 
sweeps  by.  It  is  all  daylight  these  days. 

Not  quite,  either,  for  Annie  and  the  children  are 
up  at  grandpa's  enjoying  the  summer  mountain  air. 
In  a  week  or  two  I'm  going  up  and  be  a  boy  again. 
Uncle  Joe  and  Aunt  Jane  are  growing  old.  Little 
Joe  and  Jennie  like  to  feed  the  chickens,  pick  the 
berries,  get  the  cows,  and  run  errands  of  all  kinds. 
Grandpa's  is  paradise. 

Hark !  Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot !  Some 
thing  serious  is  ahead,  for  Charlie  never  pulls  the 
whistle  rope  unless  it  means  something.  Yes,  it  is 
fearful.  I  feel  the  brakes  strike  the  wheels  and  the 
train  fetches  up  so  rapidly  that  the  passengers  pitch 
forward.  We  are  near  Sandy  Junction.  The  road 
is  level.  The  engine  was  steaming  hard,  hauling  a 
heavy  load  at  the  rate  of  sixty  miles  an  hour.  I 
spring  to  the  door  as  soon  as  I  gain  my  equilibrium. 
Charlie  is  already  on  the  ground  as  I  get  to  the  lower 
steps  and  drop  off.  "Man !"  he  cries  running  toward 
the  rear  of  the  train.  The  fireman  has  charge  of  the 
locomotive.  We  hurry  on. 

"Here  'e  is !"  exclaims  my  brother  plunging  down 


252  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

the  bank  into  the  bushes.  There  was  a  slight  stir  of 
the  dried  leaves.  We  pulled  him  out  into  the 
opening. 

"Ah-h-h,  Billy !"  gurgled  a  familiar  voice  through 
the  blood  that  flowed  freely  from  mouth  and  nose. 
"I'm  done  fur  now,  sure." 

It  was  Phil  Schleaser,  mangled  and  dying. 

"Come  'ere,  boy — ah-h !  Want  'o  tell  ye — some- 
thin'.  Didn't  never — think  o'  this,  Billy — ah-h — 
yas— done!" 

He  gasped  and  cleared  his  throat,  while  I  removed 
a  half-filled  bottle  from  his  coat,  that  he  might  rest 
easier  on  that  side. 

"That's  it— ah-h!  That  did  the  business!  Not 
you !"  rolling  his  glazing  eyes  up  at  Charlie.  "Billy, 
I  was  tough — tough's  a  knot — ah-h-h!  I'm  done 
up !"  He  rolled  heavily,  while  a  physician  passenger 
attempted  to  stanch  the  flow  of  blood. 

"No  use,  doc!  Ah-h!  'Tain't  no  use.  Billy, 
come  'ere."  I  bent  low,  for  he  now  spoke  only  in  a 
whisper.  "I  kicked  Hank — oo-oo-oo!" — he  shud 
dered  with  the  chill  of  death — "like  a  brute.  I  broke 
my — e-e-e-e — promise,  too.  He's  the  man — n — I 
the  foo-ool-1 — oo-oo-oo !  God !"  and  the  deep  gurgle 
closed  his  lips  forever.  A  tremor  and  another  shud 
der.  It  was  all  over. 

We  put  the  broken  body  on  a  stretcher,  placed  it 
in  the  baggage  car,  and  left  it  at  Bryson.  Days  and 
days  I  pondered;  the  burden  of  my  thought  was: 
rA  moderate  drinker  cannot  be  found.  Some  begin 


Au  Revoir.  253 

excess  sooner  than  others,  but  "the  end  thereof  is 
death." 

Ot  Neely  and  I  stood  side  by  side  while  others 
removed  the  remains  of  Schleaser  from  the  car. 
Our  thoughts  were  too  active  for  speech.  I  remem 
bered  Neely 's  prophetic  words.  He  was  too  much 
of  a  Christian  gentleman  to  say  now,  "I  told  you 
so."  As  we  pulled  out  from  the  station  he  grasped 
my  hand  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  said,  "Billy, 
'the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard.' '  Still  stand 
ing  on  the  lower  step  when  the  train  swept  around 
the  next  curve,  I  saw  the  swaying  head  of  my 
brother  as  his  right  hand  mopped  the  sweat  from 
his  brow.  The  accident  had  broken  him  all  up,  but 

"His  hand  was  on  the  throttle, 
And  his  eyes  upon  the  rail." 

I  knew  he  was  sober.  Assured  that  "a  thousand 
shall  fall  at  thy  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  thy  right 
hand;  but  it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee,"  I  entered 
the  coach  and  began  collecting  the  tickets. 

But  I  have  two  weeks  off  now.  Scarcely  five 
hours  of  that  time  have  elapsed  and  I  stand  on  a 
little  eminence  where  I  can  look  down  on  the  blue 
smoke  curling  from  the  summer  kitchen  of  Uncle 
joe's—I  suppose  I  should  say,  "Father  Horton." 
They  must  be  kindling  a  fire  to  get  dinner,  and  I 
am  just  in  time. 

"I  crossed  the  old  bridge  ere  the  minute  had  passed. 
I  looked:  lo!  my  love  stood  before  me  at  last, 
Her  eyes,  how  they  sparkled,  her  cheeks,  how  they  glowed, 
As  we  met  face  to  face,  at  the  turn  of  the  road!" 


254  On  the  Mountain  Division. 

A  kiss  from  all  the  inmates  of  the  home,  a  swig 
of  water  from  the  old  cocoanut  shell  on  the  well- 
curb;  hat,  coat,  cuffs,  collar,  and  tie  flung  into  a 
promiscuous  heap  on  the  floor ;  a  stretch  and  roll  on 
the  lawn,  and  my  vacation  begins  in  earnest.  Did 
you  say  anything  about  an  appetite?  Don't  mention 
it  again.  You  may  get  a  subject  too  large  for  you 
to  handle. 

In  the  gloaming !  The  "beef !  beef !  beef !"  call  of 
the  nighthawk  soaring  far  up  in  the  deepening  blue, 
and  its  "p-o-r-k !"  as  it  swooped  down  nearly  to  the 
ground  and  almost  touched  its  wheeling  mate, 
aroused  in  me  those  tender,  sweet  memories  that 
are  better  felt  than  told.  The  whistle  of  the  whip- 
poor-will  came  up  from  the  lower  woods,  and  trilled 
away  in  harmony  with  the  tinkling  notes  of  the  wood 
robin,  until  I  fancied  myself  a  boy  again.  As  dark 
ness  deepened  and  the  choir  from  the  duck  pond 
down  in  the  pasture  struck  up  a  lively  song,  I  turned 
my  eyes  toward  the  deeper  valley  in  the  distance. 
Above  the  tree  tops  I  saw  the  mist  gathering  in  its 
sinuous  course,  marking  the  flow  of  the  Delaware. 
The  familiar  sounds  hushed  me  to  sleep  in  the  old 
place. 

Did  you  say  September  ?  Yes,  that  is  the  month, 
and  we  are  back  in  our  Coalville  home. 

"The  generous  earth  spreads  out  her  fruitful  store, 
And  all  the  fields  are  decked  with  ripened  sheaves; 

While  in  the  woods  at  autumn's  rustling  step 
The  maples  blush  through  all  their  trembling  leaves." 


-Au  Revolr.  255 

My  elder  brother  and  Dorothy  have  just  gone 
home  after  spending  the  evening  with  us.  The  chil 
dren  are  all  in  bed.  The  crickets  are  chirping  their 
plaintive  note  this  autumnal  night  as  Annie  and  I 
draw  up  to  the  open  grate  to  toast  our  toes  before 
the  fire.  As  we  watched  the  gray,  dying  coals  I 
pondered:  Once  I  was  homeless,  brotherless.  A 
change  came — home,  wife,  children,  brother.  The 
fire  is  almost  out,  and  the  crickets  have  ceased  their 
chirping.  It  is  ten  by  the  clock  and  the  story  of  my 
elder  brother  is  told. 

"Good-night?  ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  good-night 

"To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good-night." 


THE  END. 


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